Origin and Season One
by Bone Dry
Summary: Cheerleader and professional Californian Buffy Summers is in every respect a normal girl, until her encounter with fate drags her down the path to demons, death, and the Hellmouth itself. Canonical fic. Part one (Origin) complete; s1 on-going.
1. Blood on the Sand

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 1293  
><em>_Setting: pre-Pilot_

_A/N: For the purposes of this fic, all s0 books and comics (which includes the Origin comics and Tales of the Slayer) do not exist and neither does the movie. I took a few very general ideas from them, and also took some names, but this fic should be viewed as if absolutely none of that was written (in other words, I am not rewriting scenes from them, I'm making them up; this includes dates). I'm only considering canon the stuff directly from the show (including, by s5 continuity, Dawn being in s1-4). We're starting in late August 1996, because that makes more sense than the gym fire happening in May during prom. If anybody cares, I can include my revised time line, so PM or drop a comment requesting it and I'll tack it onto another author's note somewhere down the line.  
><em>_Also, we're going to stay pre-Pilot for awhile, but we'll get to the actual show eventually.  
><em>_Finally, the format of this fic is inspired by BeshterAngelus' X-Files "Seasons" fics. Any fan of TXF should check those out._

"So, gave Tyler the boot, then?"

Buffy nodded, crunching noisily on a carrot pulled from a hole she'd ripped in its little plastic baggie. "It was time."

"What happened?" Tisha asked, glancing at her from behind her compact.

She shrugged, tucking hair behind her ear. "Spark was gone, you know?"

Titters of agreement. They all knew.

Tisha finally put away her make-up.

"Who's new then?" Emily asked, taking a bite of sandwich.

She glanced around. It was quiet in the cafeteria today, almost empty. She wasn't sure she wanted anyone else to hear. She leaned in, and five other heads craned with her. "Well, not _new_, exactly," she said, voice hushed, "but has anyone seen Justin?"

"Tall, dark, and gorrgeous?" Tina said, adding an extra 'r.' She wasn't quiet. "No."

"I've seen his butt," Tisha offered.

"Mm," nods of agreement all around.

"Well," Buffy said, "I met him at the field after practice. Major hotness."

A hiss of jealously. Everyone leaned back again.

Tisha looked delighted. "Sparkage?"

"_Much_ sparkage."

"Gonna hook-up?"

She glanced around again. There was no one here except them, and light was streaming brightly from the window in the door. Far away, something hummed. "Tomorrow," she said, grinning.

Tisha hooted.

Tina was nodding sagely, "My sister hooked up with his brother, you know, before he graduated. Hotness is in their genes."

"And he _is_ a junior," Morgan added.

"Ooh, what if he took you to the prom?" Carrie asked.

"Please," Tina shook her head. "Nobody goes to that."

The humming seemed louder, closer. Buffy rubbed her ears, but no one else seemed to hear it.

"_Melissa_ went to the prom," Carrie pointed a chip at Tina.

"And who talks to _Melissa?_"

The silence was punctuated only by the humming, which seemed to be vibrating from beyond the walls. And then it was broken, "Well, I don't know."

"_No one_," Tina asserted. Tisha was nodding. "Trust me, no one goes to the prom. It's the party they go to."

"I don't think she went to that," Carrie said.

The humming was louder. Like a subway or a train.

"Ex-_actly,_" Tina said.

"Besides," Tisha added, "Justin is way too cool for that. Hell, I think he's the one who hosts the party."

"Really?" Carrie asked.

"Yep. Right, Morgan?"

Morgan nodded. "Totally."

Carrie asked something else, but Buffy didn't hear it. The humming was so loud now that it roared, and the walls were shuddering as dust was shaken off the ceiling. It floated down onto their heads, almost like snow.

But no one seemed to notice.

"Can't you hear that?" she shouted over the din.

Her friends were still talking. She couldn't hear what they were saying anymore, and they didn't hear her.

_You..._

She froze, glancing back. The voice had been here, in her ear, but there was no one there.

_You must come..._

"What?" she said.

No answer.

"Come where?" she tried again.

_You must come..._

"What are you talking about?"

Sunlight was streaming brightly from the window in the door, and in it she could see the dust dancing. She suddenly realized how dark it was here, and that the roaring was gone. It was completely silent

She looked around again. Her friends were still talking, or their mouths were moving, but they weren't saying anything, and in the darkness she could hardly see them.

She stood.

_You need to know..._

Again she tucked her hair back. She was afraid, but she didn't know why. "What do I need to know?"

"Buffy, where are you going?" a closer, more human voice asked.

She paused. She'd been walking toward the door and the bright, bright light. "Out there," she said, pointing.

Tisha glanced that way, then looked back. "Why?"

"Because..." she murmured, but she didn't finish the thought. She approached the door, then pressed her hand to the cold steel.

_You need to know..._

She didn't ask what this time.

The door opened silently, and she walked out into the desert, squinting in the light. She was barefoot, and the sand was cool on her feet. She seemed to sink into it as she walked.

_You must come..._

Her skirt swirled around her as she made her way forward. The mountains were at her back and on her left, but she moved away from them, heading into the open. Far away, she could see something, a speck, but as she approached she realized it wasn't a speck or a shadow; it was a woman.

"I'm here," she said, stopping just short of her.

The woman studied her. She was wearing a black, hooded cloak that masked her face, and it was rippling softly in the wind. After a moment she pulled down the hood, still staring at her solemnly. Her hair was long, bright copper, unbound and curly. It was being tossed around by the wind, coming into her face, but she ignored it. She was on the low end of twenty.

"Who are you?" Buffy asked.

The woman said nothing, but looked away, out at the sunset. Dusk was on the desert, and the sky was red.

"It's your time to walk here," she said finally. Her hair was darker than the sky, almost purple.

Buffy's brows creased. "Walk where?"

"You are not ready yet."

Questions didn't seem to be getting her anywhere, so she said nothing.

"You will be."

They stood like that for a long time, the woman never looking away from the sun and the blood red sky. The wind was still tossing around her hair and her cloak.

"I'm sorry," she said finally, and Buffy looked at her, realizing she too had been staring at the sky.

"Sorry?" she repeated, "Why?"

The woman groaned in response, dropping to her knees. Blood was dripping onto the sand, and her hand left a red mark where she'd caught herself

Buffy knelt beside her, fear twisting her gut. "What happened?"

"I'm sorry," she said again. One of her hands was pressed to her stomach, the other curled in the sand. "But it's passed to you."

"What?" she didn't know what to do, so she grabbed the hand that wasn't clutching her belly. It was sticky with blood, but she pressed it between both of hers. In that moment they felt desperately like sisters. "Why are you sorry?"

Blood dribbled down her chin. Her teeth were red when she inhaled. The sunset seemed to be bleeding out of her, the red brightening and intensifying as the woman paled. Her grip on Buffy's hand faltered, and she collapsed into her.

"Soon, you'll know," her breath made odd clicking sounds, and she choked. Her hair and her cloak were still rippling in the wind.

"What will I know?" she asked, fighting panic as she tried to stem the flow herself. Her hands were coated with blood. She could almost taste it.

The woman didn't speak, or couldn't. She was still breathing, but her eyes were closed.

The sun was setting, the sky darkening.

"You must see," the woman whispered. She reached up for her, then ran two bloody fingers down her eyes, "You are chosen."

Buffy touched one of the marks, but her hands were too coated in blood to feel it. When she looked down, she realized the woman was dead, and the sky was black, and the red was chasing the sun below the sand.

She was alone.


	2. Destiny Free, Really

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 2338  
><em>_Setting: pre-Pilot_

_A/N: Some borrowed dialogue._

Four days into the new school year, and already Buffy had filled two solid pages of her notebook with scribbles. And not large scribbles, _tiny_ scribbles. Like, little stars and hearts and swirls and spirals, and she'd colored them in with markers. She was almost through her first pack of gum too.

"...the Brooklyn Bridge was constructed in 1883, and took fourteen years to build. In that span of time..."

She yawned, fishing another marker from her bag and tuning out Ms. Hagopian's voice. She was confident her make-up hid it, but she hadn't slept in two days. The nightmares had hit her hard and fast the last few weeks, never stopping, her mom's sleeping pills useless against them. Every night she was running down a different street, a different room, and every night she'd die. She could feel the pain long after she'd woken up, following her into the shower and her morning routine. Right now, she was banking on the idea that no sleep was better than what she'd been getting.

Her attention drifted from her notebook. Everyone was starting to pack up.

"We'll be talking a bit more about urban planning tomorrow," Ms. Hagopian was saying, "and by Friday you need to have completed your worksheets. Remember, extra credit for completing section C. Dismissed." The packing intensified, and suddenly half the room was up and crowding toward the door.

"Buffy," Tisha said, cutting through the rows between their assigned seats as she began putting things away herself. "Snagged a few lollipops from Mrs. Northern's office. Want one now that it's safe?"

She brightened, feeling instantly more awake as she took the lollipop, shucked off the plastic, and got up. "Thanks. You know, I can't believe they made you see her."

"Yeah, I mean, honestly, over _Sherry?_"

She nodded, "Like anyone cares, right?"

"But it was only like an hour, so, whatev." She shrugged.

Buffy grabbed her purse, and together they headed for the door. Chloe and Morgan were waiting for them.

"Hey," they all said.

Chloe launched in immediately, "So, I was, you know, walking down the hall, right? And you know who I see?"

"A boy?" Tisha guessed.

"A _boy_?" she repeated, aghast. "Not just _a boy_, it was _Kyle_."

"Kyle?" Buffy asked, no faces coming to mind.

"Come on," Chloe said. "He's got those arms, and those hands..."

"That's helping, arms and hands," she cut in. "Both legs too?"

Chloe's was unfazed. "You'd know him when you saw him. Anyway, we talked, right, and you know what he said?" She didn't pause for reply. "He's made it onto the team! I know who we'll be cheering for come November."

"You," Morgan corrected. "Kyle's got nothing on Mike."

"Mike gives me the wiggins," Chloe said.

"Why?"

She shrugged, "He's just so short for football, you know?"

"Maybe, but have you _seen _his hair?"

Buffy zoned. Her on again off again was also on the team, and she was supposed to see him today. She didn't know what was going to happen, but she knew she wouldn't be cheering for Mike or Kyle in this lifetime.

"Is Kyle taking you to the dance?" Morgan was asking.

"I saw it in his eyes," Chloe replied.

"But did he _ask_ you?" Tisha wanted to know.

"Well, not yet, but he's single. He'll ask. I've already got my dress picked out."

"So do I," Tisha said immediately. Morgan was nodding. "Buffy?"

Buffy sighed, "Well, I had something picked out, but my dad didn't want to get it for me. He said I should use _my _money, can you imagine?"

"He didn't," Tisha said.

"He did," she said, removing her lollipop to gesture with it. The three of them stepped out of the main building and made their way down the stairs. "He wanted me to wear the dress I got crowned in. So, I'm like, 'Dad, you want me to go to the dance in a dress I've already worn? Why do you hate me?' "

"Is Tyler taking you?" Chloe asked.

That threw her slightly, "Where were you when I got over Tyler? He is of the past." She made to replace the lollipop, paused, "Tyler would have to crawl on his hands and knees to get me to go to the dance with him. Which, actually, he's supposed to do after practice so I'm gonna wait." This time the sucker made it back to her mouth.

"Okay," she said. "See you later."

They exchanged goodbyes, and Buffy took a seat on the stairs. From here she'd be able to see the field and the boys without having to walk out to the bleachers. As much as she was content to wait, she didn't want to be seen waiting. He was begging her, not the other way around.

"Buffy Summers?"

She turned, sucker popping out of her mouth,"Yeah?" Ugly suit, ugly tie, worried expression—she didn't recognize him. "Hi! What?"

"I need to speak with you."

Concern flickered, guilt immediately rising to the surface. "You're not from Bullock's, are you? 'Cause I meant to pay for that lipstick."

His expression didn't change, "There isn't much time. You must come with me. Your destiny awaits."

She paused. His suit didn't fit quite right, and even from here she could smell cigar on him. She felt like one of those kids being asked to find the missing puppy or to get into the van for free chocolates. "I don't have a destiny," she said, eyebrows pinching. "I'm destiny-free, really." The lollipop went back into her mouth.

The worry didn't waver. "Yes, you have," he said. "You are the Chosen One. You alone can stop them."

She'd gone from kid and a creeper to kid and crazy, delusional guy. She pulled the sucker from her mouth again, "Who?"

"The vampires," he supplied.

She just stared at him, "Huh?"

He glanced around, worry creasing every line on his face. He looked like a walrus. "We can't talk here," he said after a beat, stepping closer.

She got up, gesturing out with the lollipop. "That's close enough, thanks."

"No, you must listen to me." He lowered his voice, "You are the Slayer."

Again, she blinked at him, "What?"

"Into every generation, she is born," he said. "One girl in all the world, a Chosen One. She alone will wield the strength and skill to fight the vampires, demons, and the forces of darkness, to stop the spread of their evil and the swell of their number. She is the Slayer."

Nothing in life had prepared her for this. She'd never taken How to Deal with the Crazies 101. Do you call a teacher about this? Or was it a 911 thing? Why didn't her mom get her a cell phone?

"Buffy," he regained her attention. "_You_ are the Slayer."

"No," she said. "I am not. But _you_ have serious trauma if you think I am."

She made to turn, but he grabbed her arm. "Buffy, you must listen to me. I don't—"

"Don't touch me," she growled, ripping out of his grip.

He continued as if she hadn't spoken, "There's been a mistake here. You haven't been trained, you've never had a Watcher, but you were chosen, and the world needs you."

She was getting angry now, and she could feel the exhaustion of the last few days creeping up on her, sucker or no. "I'm fifteen years-old. The only thing that needs me is the jewelry counter at Bloomingdale's. Now, leave me alone."

"I can't."

"Fine," she started walking down the steps. "Then I'll go."

He moved in front of her, so close she could smell the odd mix of cigar smoke and sweat that radiated off his clothes. "You're Buffy Summers, born in LA County to Hank and Joyce Summers—"

"So you went through my records," she cut in, trying to move past him.

He blocked her again, "You've broken things on accident lately, found everything easier to carry. You've been having nightmares."

At this she stopped, eying him. "Everyone has bad dreams," she said after a moment.

"Not nightly," he knew he had her. "Every night, a different girl, a different place, but always the same thing. You fight, and you die."

She said nothing, a tiny, niggling bit of doubt eating at a tiny portion of her brain.

"You must remember them, Buffy. You must see who you are."

Words from far away. A vast desert under a blood red sky. _You are chosen._

"You're deluded," she said, not quite as confidently. Exhaustion was wearing down her nerves, and when she closed her eyes she could almost see them—the woman with the long, copper-colored hair; the boy in the alley, blood pooling into the gaps between cobblestones; riding horseback through an endless field, eyes on a distant cloud of smoke and the house she knew it was coming from. Teeth, blades, and yellow eyes. Pain, blood.

But they were just dreams.

He didn't say anything, just watched her with those sad, worried eyes. She wanted him to talk, so she could argue with him and catch the next bus home, but he was going to make her do it. "Look," she said finally. "Mister...?"

"Merrick," he supplied.

"Merrick, there are no such as things as goblins and ghouls, and I think you need to find your way back to the padded cell you escaped from."

"Enough. We don't have time for this," the worry melted into anger, and he reached into his suit pocket. Before she could react, he touched her with his index and middle fingers, right over her eyes. His hand smelled coppery, like blood. "_Animadverto verum_," he whispered.

"What're you—" she started to say, but the words died on her lips as searing, biting pain roared between her eyes...

...and she was running, hard and fast, down the cobblestone streets. Her blood was loud in her ears, and her lungs burned. Her Watcher was dead, and she'd watched him die. She couldn't stop it, couldn't get there in time, and now she was running herself, weaponless, frightened. She was no longer the huntress; she was the hunted, and she knew they were coming even as she flew down the narrow street, found the dead end, and leaped onto the roof. Her shadow was inky black against the moonlight as it ran beside her, and she could already hear them following.

She climbed the next roof when she reached it, and threw herself onto the one after, landing hard. She couldn't stop, couldn't register the pain. She had to keep running, and she kept moving.

"Abby, Abby..."

She skidded to a stop, shingling breaking under her feet. Her pulse was beating hard in her temples, almost blinding her, and she could taste sour fear in her throat.

"Dear Abby," he said. She didn't know his name, or if he even had one.

It hit her with clarity. It ended now, tonight. One of them wasn't walking away from this.

"I'll kill you," she hissed, launching forward. She didn't have any weapons, but the force when she hit him sent them both flying from the roof. They slammed to the ground, both stunned. She could feel blood trickling down her forehead, and something felt very wrong with her wrist, but she recovered first, forcing herself off the ground. He was just getting up, and she rushed him, hitting him over and over until he threw her against the wall. She landed in a pile of detritus, and her hand found a rock as she stumbled to her feet. When he came for her, she sent the rock up to meet him, slamming it forcefully into his jaw, and then again through his temple. He staggered away, and she looked down the alley. Sweet merciful God, a pile of old shipping crates.

She ran for them.

She could hear him chasing her.

There was blood dripping into her eyes.

She reached the box. Without pause she slammed her fist inside, hardly feeling the wood as it raked across her skin. She needed just a sliver, a splinter, anything, and she had it.

He was on her, and she met him, forcing the little piece through his chest.

He gasped, and for just a second they locked eyes. His eyes were yellow and dead under the grotesque mask of his face, and then he was gone. He'd crumbled away, fallen to dust, and she was alone in the alley.

The pain hit her all at once, from her head and her arm, her lungs and her ankles. Blood was still dribbling into her eyes, and she wiped it away. From the mouth of the alley, she saw more coming. She'd killed their leader, but it didn't matter, they would always come, and she couldn't stop them.

Painfully, she forced herself to her feet, meeting their gaze coolly, gripping her little splinter like it was the greatest longsword ever forged.

She wouldn't be making it out of the alley alive.

With a final cry, she plunged forward, into the mess of them...

...and it was bright, and the sun was shining, and it was a hot, summer day in California. She was laying on the warm concrete steps, fingers pressed to her forehead.

Merrick was standing over her. There was no one else around.

"I believe you," she said simply.

The worry shifted to a small sense of satisfaction, and he offered his hand to pull her up.

She took it.


	3. Midnight Musings

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 1027  
><em>_Setting: pre-Pilot_

Buffy stared at the ceiling from the top of her neatly made bed, absently fingering Mr. Gordo as she kicked off her socks. She was hot. Yesterday, she would have opened the window, but tonight she was afraid to, and she'd shut the curtains only a few minutes after turning off the lights. Even with them shut, she imagined something lingering outside, watching her, but at least she wouldn't be able to see it.

She stared up at the ceiling, and at the little plastic glowing stars she'd posted there as a kid, not really seeing them. She was exhausted, but she couldn't sleep.

She was The Slayer, capital T. The Chosen One. She was like one of those comic book figures, Electryza or something, some fantastical warrior amazon thingy destined to save mankind. The more she thought about it, the more insane she felt, but she'd seen a vampire tonight with her own two eyes, and had killed it with her own two hands. _Killed._

She placed Mr. Gordo over her head, exhaling into his stomach.

Killed. She'd never killed anything except, like, ants before, but tonight she'd jammed a stake through a heart. She'd killed him, watched as he exploded into nothing.

But he'd been trying to kill her, with the kind of blind rage she associated with crazoids from bad slasher films. She'd been taken to the cemetery to watch a monster crawl from the grave and target the first thing he saw—her—so one of them could kill the other.

She thought of the Slayer she'd seen today on the steps of Hemery High, Abby, of the Slayers she'd been seeing in her sleep for the past few weeks. Is this what is was for them, what it now was for her? Demons and beasties, every night a gamble that you'd survive long enough to see another? She was fifteen years old. This morning she'd been thinking about the supreme dullness of history, the ugliness of gym clothes, boys, the back-to-school dance. Tonight she was thinking about death and vampires.

None of this seemed real.

Something creaked. Her door.

She shot up, Mr. Gordo flying from her face and down to the floor as she landed beside him.

"Dawn," she hissed, heart racing. "You're supposed to be asleep."

"When you kiss Tyler, do you use your tongue?"

She blinked at her sister, who was standing there in one of their Dad's old t-shirts, which swallowed her almost whole. She was clutching her bear.

"What?" she said weakly.

"My friend Jessie said when you stay out late with boys it's to kiss with your tongue. Frenching." She paused, "Is that what all French people do?"

"Go to bed," she growled, returning to her own, grabbing Mr. Gordo in the process.

Dawn took that as an open invitation to her room, shutting the door behind her before joining Buffy on the bed. "So, were you out frenching Tyler?"

"I was out slaying monsters," she replied to Mr. Gordo, not looking at her.

"So you were."

"Sure, whatever." She wondered if she would leave on her own or if she was going to have to bodily remove her.

"Buffy..." her voice seemed smaller, and Buffy finally looked at her. "Should Mom and Dad fight so much? I mean, does everybody fight like that?"

She felt a tightness in her gut that had nothing to do with vampires or Slayers. "I don't know, Dawn," she said almost as quietly, looking away.

"You shouldn't have stayed out so late," her tone was insistent.

"I won't," she knew as she said it that it was a lie.

"I don't want them to fight anymore."

"I don't either." That much was true.

"Why would you want to kiss a boy anyway?"

She smiled thinly. "You will too, one day."

"But it's _gross._"

"I'll be sure to remind you when I find you in the back of some car with some guy."

"A car?" she repeated. "Why do you kiss in a car?"

Her cheeks colored, but the darkness hid it. "You just do."

"It's a thing?"

"It's a thing," she affirmed.

"Oh." That was all she said.

Boys. Tyler. Tyler who she'd meant to see today, but hadn't. She wasn't sure if she was going to look for him tomorrow or not, or what she was going to say. 'Hi, sorry, but I had an after-funeral to go to. You know how those things are.'

But it wasn't like she'd missed a date or anything. She said she _might_ wait for him after practice, not that she _would_. It would be fine.

She refocused. Dawn was apparently out of questions, and she was falling asleep where she sat, bear and all.

Sighing, Buffy reached over and smoothed the hair out of her face. "Come on, Mom'll kill me and then you and then me...again if she sees you out of bed." She slid off her bed.

Dawn followed. "You can't die die twice."

"She'll resurrect me and kill me again," she corrected, opening her door and gently pushing her out.

"Like a zombie?"

"Yes, a beautiful, fashion-conscious zombie." She walked the few steps to her sister's room, then stopped.

"Would you smell bad?"

She shook her head. "Never."

"Oh." She just stood there, staring up at her.

After a beat, Buffy chin-nodded toward the bed. "Go to sleep now?" she asked.

Dawn nodded and shuffled into the room, fingers wrapped around her bear.

"Door open or closed?"

"Open."

Nodding, Buffy swung it only part-closed, then headed back to her own room, where she plopped ungracefully onto her mattress. For a moment, she stared up again at her plastic stars, but then she turned over and shut her eyes.

She was done thinking for the night. The Slayers would leave her alone now that she'd joined them, she was hopeful of that much. Everything else could hold till tomorrow.

Whatever that may bring.


	4. Sawdust Bags

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 1789  
><em>_Setting: pre-Pilot_

The little bag split down the middle, sending a combination of what looked like sawdust and bunched-up newspaper flying. Buffy looked at the new pile of stuff, then at her bandaged hands, then up at Merrick.

Merrick was looking characteristically worried today, but she sensed the forecast may hold irritation. She decided to push it.

"So, I guess there's no _Rocky_ montage involved here?"

He glanced at her with heavy lidded eyes. "I had to improvise."

"Yeah, I can see that," she took a seat on one of the crates either he'd supplied or the warehouse they'd taken over had come pre-packaged with. "I thought you Watcher guys were like an official thing."

"I only just got here, Buffy, and the Council doesn't ship me equipment." He walked to a crate pressed up against a corner, where there were several more bags. "We'll just have to make do for now."

"Why not?" she asked, thumping her shoes against the wood. "The fate of the world is resting on my shoulders, and you've got me here training with old potato sacks and sawdust."

He scowled at her, but said nothing, lugging another bag over to the crate with the one she'd torn open.

"So where'd you move from?" she asked, slipping a piece of gum from her pocket and popping it into her mouth.

He pulled the broken bag off and left it where it'd fallen. "What?"

"You said you'd moved," she said. "Watchers are in England, right? But you don't sound all British."

"I'm not English, no." He pointed at the sack, "This one's ready for you. And spit out that gum."

She ignored him, hopping down. As she approached she rewrapped the bandages for the zillionth time—they still didn't feel right even after a week of this. "So where'd you move from?"

"Tempe," he supplied after a beat.

She thought, "Arizona, right?"

"Right."

"You from there?"

"No."

Talking to him was like pulling teeth. The first few days they hadn't said much, but the dourness was a downer, and frankly spending an hour or two socking bags wasn't doing it for her conversation-wise.

"I want you to try again with your basic punches. They're getting..." his voice trailed off. "A little better."

"Hey," she said, retaping the bandage again. "I'm a cheerleader, not Buffy Tyson." She started hitting, aiming squarely for the little stars in the middle of the logo. She was already falling into a bit of a rhythm. Maybe it was the ancient generations of Slayer blood or whatever, but her fighting moves seemed to come more out of herself than what Merrick was saying to her.

"Loosen up more," he said, taking the seat she'd vacated. "Flow like water."

He had a thing about that, water and rivers and flowing. "'kay," she muttered, trying to be like water, whatever that meant.

"And I'm from Saskatoon."

She glanced over at him, still punching. "Where's that? Alaska?"

"Canada. Alternate kicks and punches on the hanging bag."

Obediently, she turned to where a sack of sawdust was hanging from a hook, then began beating on it. "So they have Canadian Watchers?" she asked after she'd remembered how she was supposed to do it.

"There are Watchers all over the world."

"Why'd you come down here?"

"Got sick of the cold."

"So Sunny California seemed like the natural choice?"

"I moved to Arizona, if you've forgotten."

She scowled, kicking hard, and the bag flew from the hook to land with a _thwak! _on the concrete floor.

He glanced over at it when she turned to him. "You've got to learn control. There's no use hitting them so hard."

"Easy for Mr. Watcher to say," she replied petulantly.

His face revealed little. Just a mask of irritation couched in a general air of worry. "Suppose that's enough for now," he said. "Now your agility circuit."

That was more fun, but she decided to grouse anyway as she took off her bandages, "I still think we should have padding in here."

"You won't have padding out there," he said again.

"But we're in here."

"Buffy..." his voice was flat, long-suffering.

She dropped it. Sighing, she shoved the crate with the sawdust bag aside, clearing a long runway. Before last week, she didn't know if she even would've been able to move that, but now it only felt shifting a trashcan. Everything in her world seemed lighter, like feathers, and she still wasn't quite used to it. She'd asked Merrick if she could lift a car like Superman or something, and he'd said no, but one day she was probably going to try anyway.

"And spit out your gum."

She glanced over at him. For a second she'd almost forgotten he was there. "Fine," she said, then spit it into its wrapper and tossed it away.

"Remember what to do?"

"Yep," she said.

She somersaulted forward, once, twice, three times, four, eventually melting into a roll. Sometimes she knew what Merrick meant about the water, more than he probably did. When she stopped thinking it was all fluidity. Like a river.

"It wasn't the cold," he said.

She stopped, breathing. "What?" she asked, then flipped herself over a crate.

"It wasn't because of the cold," he said again. "There was an incident in Tempe, a Watcher died, and they needed someone to guide the Slayer."

This time she stopped moving completely. She was sweating, breathing hard, and she studied him. He was watching her sadly. "She was the last one, before me, I mean," she said. It wasn't a question.

He nodded.

The air seemed to leave the room. "What happened?" she asked.

"She died."

"That wasn't what I—" she started to say.

"I know." He slid off the box. "That's enough for today."

She just stood there, feeling the heat of the summer sun soaking through the building. "So, what, she dies and they just send you on to the next one?" her voice was incredulous.

"You needed someone with experience," he replied, moving the sack back to the larger pile in the corner.

This time she walked over and took it from him. It seemed to weigh about as much as one of her notebooks. "Who are we to you?" she asked.

He hesitated, and she dropped the bag on top of the others, then turned back to him. "So one of us dies, the next one is called, and you just start all over again?"

"A Watcher usually retires when his Slayer does. This was special circumstance."

"Retire?" she repeated. She hardly felt the heat now. If anything she felt cold. "You mean die?"

Pause. "Yes," he admitted after a beat.

She was temporarily stunned by the bluntness of it, but she found her voice as she took a seat on the nearest crate. "That's great," she said. "So...what? A few days after some vamp turns me into maggot meal you'll be sitting under a palm tree in Barbados sipping a martini with one of those little plastic umbrellas in it while a young cabana girl named Kiko invites you to the luau on island three?"

He stood there for awhile, so long she was starting to think she'd imagined voicing her little diatribe, but then he stepped closer to her and put his hand on her shoulder. "Buffy," he said quietly, "all Slayers have to come to terms with this, as do their Watchers. Your gifts come with a heavy price."

She bit her lip, looking down at the floor. She felt like a little kid. "I didn't ask for this."

"How often do we get what we asked for?"

She said nothing. Already she'd dusted a handful of vamps, and every day she felt a little stronger, but she could feel this eating away at her life. She just wondered how long it would be before it took it entirely.

"You must concentrate on training, Buffy," he said after long moments had passed in silence. "Strong like stone, fluid like water. It'll keep you living."

"Is that what you said to the other one?" she asked gloomily.

"I'm saying it to you."

She met his eyes, then looked away, sliding off the crate. "I need to get home, before it gets dark. My parents are starting to wonder where I've been going."

He glanced at her sharply. "You haven't told them?"

"No," her voice was flat. "No, no one knows Buffy's grand secret."

She led the way to his car, an old, ugly brown thing that looked like it was salvaged from the 70s. Merrick followed.

They drove back toward her neighborhood in silence, his eyes on the road, hers on nothing in particular. She kept thinking about dying, and if she would visit the next Slayer in her sleep as well. Did Slayers go to the desert when they died, or was it just the last one? Maybe it was a desert somewhere in Arizona. The place where she'd died.

The car stopped, and she realized they'd pulled up just outside her cul de sac.

"Rose Hill tonight," Merrick said by way of goodbye.

"Alright," she replied, opening the door. She'd be sneaking out the window again tonight, after her parents had gone to bed. She just had to keep praying Dawn didn't stop in for another late night visit.

She paused, a thought occurring. "Merrick?" she said.

"Yes?" he looked at her.

"If I, you know—I guess, _when_ I die, what will you tell my parents? I mean," she tried to find the right words, "would they just never know about me, about any of it? Would they just think I'd run away and died in some ditch somewhere?"

Again, he let the silence stretch out. "It's possible," he said finally.

That pissed her off for some reason, but she didn't say anything more on it. Instead, she got out. "See you tonight," she said, shutting the door.

As she walked down the street, she thought about dying, and about the questions she'd have to avoid when she got home. She thought about Dawn, and that first night when she'd asked if she'd been out kissing boys.

If only, she sighed, rounding the turn for her house.


	5. Day Jobs

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 1418  
><em>_Setting: pre-Pilot_

The bathrooms at Hemery High perpetually smelled like a combination of borax and antiseptic. It wasn't even that it was particularly clean in here, and, hell, stall number three was famous for its epic and indelible "Q&A with the Devil," where many freshman learned the phrase "cocksucking blowhard" for the first time in their lives. But it _smelled_ clean, and a bag of extra soap was kept in an unlocked metal cabinet over the dispenser.

Sighing, Buffy reached for it and dumped yet more of it onto her hands. She was truly starting to fear that she would never get this smell out of her hair, her skin, or her clothes.

Today it had come to her that her two AM patrols, as she was starting to think of them, were a luxury. Slayer strength came with the spiffy perk of only needing to sleep an hour or two a night, and as much as she never in her wildest hallucinations thought of herself as the Rambo type, being alone and in her element every night didn't suck. There was the life or death thing, and the whole having-to-crawl-in-and-out-her-window-every-night thing, but other than that, it was working out for her.

But this. This was just gross.

Today, for the first time, Merrick had called her at home, on the phone, to tell her to meet him at an abandoned building off Hazel Street, and that it had to be by midday. When she'd arrived, he'd handed her the sword she'd only recently figured out how to use, and told her a small group of S'yunradoodle-whatsitz were performing some kind of evil ritual, and if she didn't stop them, by nightfall twenty more would come and break into a local mortuary to start foraging for dead people.

She had felt the only rational response to that was "ew." He had felt it was to go in with the sword, alone, and begin hacking off heads. There were four of them, and only one of Buffy. This didn't seem to concern Merrick very much, and before she could ask if this was how the last Slayer died, he had departed to watch her storm the gates from the safety of a bus stop across the street.

And so she, his dutiful Slayer monkey, had burst through a window in a dramatic shower of glass and old wood, to find four disgusting sludgeballs of sludge with beady little eyes and these tiny hands chanting around a circle of red dust and several colorful pieces of rock. She'd been stunned for a moment, as had they. The thought that these things inhabited the same planet as she did was bad enough, but then that they also, what, absorbed dead people too? What was this? What was her life becoming? Why had she cut class to do this? And how had no one noticed these things crawling in here?

After Slayer and Slayees had recovered from their mutual surprise at finding each other, fighting ensued. The things were about as agile as they looked, but their skin had been tougher than rawhide. She was exhausted by the time she'd cut the last one down, feeling both exceptionally undertrained and exceptionally underappreciated.

Merrick had met her outside, still worried, still clad in his ugly suit and uglier tie. She'd confronted him about his literal interpretation of the word "Watcher." He'd replied that just as slaying was the Slayer's burden, watching was the Watcher's.

A joke, possibly his first since that fateful day slightly less than three weeks ago when they'd first met. He was making a joke while she was covered in the gooky blood of Cyan Whatsies.

Too disgusted for words, she'd gone to his car, grabbed the towel he'd at least been thoughtful enough to bring for her, and scrubbed the worst of the yuck off. Twenty minutes later, here she was in the school bathroom, knowing even as she stood there she was missing the start of her last class of the day.

She looked up at herself, at her long, blonde hair that had been pulled back into a pony tail. Scowling, she slipped off her hairband and let it loose, then scrubbed off a little patch of green on her cheek.

She had a feeling this was only the start. Merrick had been keeping her on hold for training. Patrols were like...applied training to him, no matter how close the calls were. But now he'd decided she was ready for the next step, to fully fulfill her destiny as the cork of Hell's bottle right here in the City of Angels.

She froze suddenly, the cogs in her brain mulling over one word: training. Training, training, Wednesday afternoons, last class.

Shit!

She hurriedly washed the borax off her hands, then bolted out the door. The halls were deserted as she ran down them and skidded to a stop beside her locker. The insane desire to just rip open her door with Slayer strength came to mind, but she pushed it away, hurriedly entering the combination and grabbing her little bag. She didn't have time to change, and she wasn't even entirely sure what time it was, but showing up had to count for something.

She tore down the hallway, her stylish yet practical sneakers making sharp _clip! clap! _sounds that echoed off the walls. It occurred to her as she rounded a bend and rushed down another corridor that she hadn't bothered applying much make-up this morning after she'd gotten Merrick's call, and her hair was messy from her fight. She was wearing long pants, a halter, and a half-zipped hoodie to hide the stains from the demons' blood.

Dear god, all she needed was some spandex and a pair of high tops and she would be one of those people she mocked.

She had just looped her hair back into a pony tail when she reached the gym, and she opened the door a crack to slip inside.

Exercise music was blasting from a boombox sitting on the bleachers as the squad went about its practiced motions. On the far right was Tina, who barked at Carrie to keep in line. She spotted Buffy.

"Buffy!" she shouted over the music, and everyone stopped, but she turned back to them, "Don't all stop, jeez!"

Buffy stood there meekly as Tina walked up, feeling like one of those girls who'd been caught trying to covertly slip into English after they'd been sucking face in the bathroom for the first ten minutes of the period.

"You're twenty minutes late," Tina said by way of greeting, looking irritated. "And...what are you wearing?"

She shifted, "I'm sorry."

"For your outfit?"

"For being late."

She sniffed, "You should be sorry for both."

Buffy felt a surge of annoyance, but she swallowed it. "And I am. Look, I'll go change, be back in five." She gestured with her bag in the direction of the locker rooms.

Tina eyed her. She was captain of the junior varsity league, and general knowledge was that she wanted desperately to captain varsity. She had as little tolerance for team discordance as she did peanuts, which she was deathly allergic to.

"Fine," she said after several extended beats.

Buffy nodded, relieved, then headed for the locker rooms. Tisha caught her eye as she passed, mouthing a silent 'What?', but Buffy shook her head.

The music muffled as the locker room door slid shut behind her, and she quickly stripped, feeling out of sorts. Cheering had been her life freshman year. It was where she had made all her friends, met all her boys. She'd had her new life less than a month, and already it was encroaching.

She paused, spotting several large, blotchy bruises on her arms and side where she'd been thrown against a wall. She felt immediately thankful that as short as the skirt was, the cheering costume had long arms, and all her marks would be covered. Coming up with a plausible story for her lateness was going to be difficult enough, but trying to explain those would've been another matter entirely.

Leaving her bag where it was, she quickly adjusted her hair in a mirror, grabbed her pompoms, and slipped back into the gym to take her place on the mid-left side. Monsters and demons were her night job, and she'd be damned if she was going to lose her day job to it.


	6. Slipping

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 1907  
><em>_Setting: pre-Pilot_

Apparently, she was damned.

Sighing, Buffy slipped quietly from class, tossing her quiz in the trash as she went. Tisha was out sick with a head cold, and for once she didn't feel like tracking down any of the other cheerleaders. Right now, she just wanted to go home and do her worksheets and her reading, pretend like she had some semblance of a life, and try to flag her slipping grades. It was still early in the year, but she was behind in everything, and frankly she felt like she hadn't even heard of half the things on Monday's quiz.

Other kids streamed around her as she stepped out into the quad. She could hear snatches of gossip, somebody talking about their impending AP chemistry exam. A few weeks ago, she would've been in a knot of her own, but she could feel herself slipping away, being drawn into the darkness and the death that was now her nightly duty. Maybe that was why she'd rejected all the dark clothes in her wardrobe, switched to wearing almost wholly pastels and flowers. If she couldn't bring the sunshine into her life then she was just going to have to force it in.

She took a seat on a bench, exhaling deeply and slowly. It was bright and loud and full of life, exactly what she'd been missing lately, and it almost seemed to her she'd never fully appreciated it before this moment.

But it didn't last long.

"Hey!"

Her eyes popped open. She hadn't full registered she'd had them closed.

"Would you get off?"

Her attention flicked over, to a circle around the Official Cliché Palm Tree. Kyle Sanders, the football jock, had backed Conner Hutchinson, the nerd captain, to the base of the tree. It was a mass of football jerseys and skirts, and a few bystanders were watching, like herself.

"Think I wouldn't see that shit you put in your little newspaper, Dorkinson?" Kyle said. He had Conner by the scruff. "Fucked up my name on purpose?"

"Leave him alone!" someone yelled. Sounded like Maddy Richards, and it looked like her from the flash of yellow Buffy saw before she was surrounded by a few of the girls, who apparently were losing interest in just watching.

This was common sport here at Hemery—she'd even participated—but for some reason Buffy felt the hairs stand up on her neck. Suddenly, she was standing, and then she was walking over, her book bag swinging lightly from her shoulder.

"Like I'd even care enough to sabotage your precious name," Conner spat. Even from his position, he stayed strong, but then again he'd probably spent most of his life in a similar one. His glasses were so thick rumor had it he could see the surface of Mars on a clear night.

Kyle slammed him back against the tree, and the palm shook. It wasn't that big of a palm. "_Respect, _Dorkinson, we've been over this."

Conner glared at him. He couldn't hit him. He knew it and everyone else did, but for a second it almost looked like he was going to. Instead, "Fuck you."

Kyle pinned him harder against the tree. In the background, Maddy was being chased off. "That's it," he hissed, then grabbed his glasses by the lenses.

Something inside Buffy snapped, and before she even knew what she was doing, her hand was on Kyle's arm. "Alright," she said. "Give them to me."

Everything froze, and time seemed to slow. Kyle stared at her. "What the fuck, Summers?" he snarled. He tried to rip out of her hand, but she held him steady. This guy had nothing on the vamp from plot 12D the other night.

"I said, give them to me," she repeated. She was suddenly very conscious of the fact that everyone was staring at her. In that moment, she was a freak, but it was too late to go back now.

When Kyle didn't respond, she plucked the glasses from his grip, then held them out to Conner, never looking, her eyes still locked with the jock's. Conner took them after a beat, but said nothing. Everyone was just standing there, waiting.

For what? For one of them to fight? Is this what the Slayer was? The righter of wrongs? Was it even her responsibility? Did she have an obligation to defend the weak or was this a bigger fish to fry situation?

Kyle jerked, but she still held him, not entirely sure what to do now that she was doing it. Something seemed to pass through his face, and then he had her shirt by his other hand.

She didn't think, didn't pause. In a moment she'd flipped him, thrown him to the ground, and when he landed she knelt beside him. If she'd had a stake she would've pressed it to his chest. "Don't touch me," she growled, adjusting her shirt.

"What's going on?" someone was yelling with alarm. "Buffy Summers!"

Her insides coiled. A millisecond ago she'd been smooth and fluid, but now she was sweating.

"Buffy, get off him!" A hand was on her arm.

She rose, staring at Kyle. There was blood on his lip. Had she punched him? She couldn't remember.

The hand tugged her around. It was attached to Ms. Hagopian, who was looking her over, presumably for signs of injury. "Explain," she said tersely.

"I..." she started, stopped. Her tongue felt like cotton. "I got sick of watching him beat up Conner," she said finally. That was all she had, honestly.

Ms. Hagopian glanced from her down to Kyle, who was still on the grass, then back up to her. "So you decided beating up _him_ was the solution?"

"It seemed right at the time..." her voice trailed off lamely. She sucked at levity.

Kyle slowly pushed himself off the ground.

Ms. Hagopian looked at Buffy with disappointed eyes. "Come on." Her gaze flicked to Kyle. "Both of you."

Buffy realized as she followed that the quad was emptier now. Bystanders had scattered with the arrival of a teacher, but even among the few left she recognized faces. Chloe, Melissa, Sally, Danny, and...Tyler.

She wanted to desperately to stop, to say something, but he wasn't even looking in her direction. He was in a circle of jerseys.

He disappeared from sight as they entered the corridor of wing C. There were classrooms here, but around the corner was the administrative area, where presumably all the teachers curled up and slept for the night. She'd never had much reason to be down here, and certainly had never been brought down to the end of the hall, where Mrs. Holloway sat.

First time for everything, she thought bitterly as Ms. Hagopian opened the door, gestured at the seats, then disappeared around back.

Kyle and Buffy took opposite sides of the room without eye contact. Before this, they may have sat together, maybe talked, possibly even dated, but now the void stretched between them. There was still blood on his lip, and a smarting bruise on his cheek.

So she had hit him, she realized dully.

"Kyle Sanders," the secretary, Mrs. Crawford, said after a few minutes of silence, peeking her head around the corner that led to Mrs. Holloway's office.

Kyle got up, shooting a smirk at Buffy before he left her.

She kept her focus on the floor, at a little patch of lint caught under a chair leg. She remembered suddenly one of the first conversations she'd had with Merrick, when he'd suggested she leave school, leave her family, and leave Los Angeles to go some place that more urgently needed her—Cleveland, apparently. She hadn't known then why he would say such a thing, what would possess him to even think she could consider it, but now all at once she was understanding.

She was the Slayer. She didn't belong in the principal's office defending herself from a scuffle after hours on the school quad. She shouldn't have to sneak out of her parents' house every night, shouldn't have to live in fear that someone would find out her secret. This was a waste of her time, and, frankly, Kyle had the IQ of cucumber.

She leaned back, running her fingers through her hair.

If she thought about it honestly though, it didn't matter. She couldn't up and abandon her life, if only because she couldn't let this own her. She had changed, and she was the Slayer, but she was still just Buffy, and that was who she wanted to stay.

But, she thought with depressing clarity, this wouldn't be the last time she would see the inside of this office.

Several eons passed with her sitting there, mulling over her life for what seemed the thousandth time, before Kyle stepped out of the office, looking far paler than he'd been going into it.

"Miss Summers?" Mrs. Crawford said, head-nodding toward the office.

Sighing, Buffy rose and followed her in.

Mrs. Holloway's office looked to some degree like a hurricane had gone through it. Her shelves were stuffed with binders and books with blue and yellow bindings, and most available flat surfaces were covered with stacks of paper. Her desk was a sea of paper, but she'd cleared enough space for a stapler, a mug of pens, and her blotter. The principal herself was sitting primly behind it, watching her.

Buffy avoided her eyes, instead looking at the long venetian blinds at her back. Out the window was a spectacular view of the parking lot.

"Buffy Summers," Mrs. Holloway said. Buffy finally looked at her. "Want to tell me what happened?"

She shifted, "Got a little carried away."

"You split Mr. Sanders' lip," she said pointedly.

"He grabbed me."

"So you decided to hit him?"

"Wasn't a decision so much as a reaction..." her voice trailed off, and her gaze slid down. The desk had a chip in the wood near the top, almost like it'd hit the door frame while it was being moved into the room.

Mrs. Holloway studied her for a beat, two. Finally, "This is not the first time he's been brought to my office, but I didn't expect to see you here, Miss Summers."

"And I didn't expect to see me here either." That much they could agree on.

Another pause. "Is there something wrong, Buffy? At home or at school?"

Her breath froze in her throat, and she looked up. "No," she said. "Everything's fine."

They seemed to sit like that forever. Maybe it was only a few seconds, she didn't know, but the principal finally leaned back. "You'll have detention for the rest of the week, sixth period." She slid a slip of yellow paper across the desk. "You'll have to have this signed and turned into the office by tomorrow."

"Sixth period?" she repeated. She could feel herself going white. "But I have cheerleading practice. The play season is starting. I have to be there."

Her eyes were unreadable. "Next time, you'll think before reacting."

Fury bubbled up her throat, but she beat it down, saying nothing.

"I hope not to see you back here, Buffy," she said. "Dismissed."


	7. The Ants Go Marching

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 2958  
><em>_Setting: pre-Pilot_

The past few days had sucked. Tina hadn't taken the news of her detention well, and had replaced Buffy with first alternate for the week with the suggestion that if she missed anymore practice, she'd be off for good. Tyler was avoiding her, and she wasn't really looking for him, given she didn't know what to say and a growing part of her didn't care. Her parents at least hadn't done much, beyond a late night talk from mom about the importance of controlling her temper.

But all in all, it sucked to be sitting in that depressing little box of a room on the second floor of building C, staring off at some point between the desk and the wall, no book, no homework, no nothing, surrounded by a group of losers with mohawks, heavy eyeshadow, and cheek piercings. And it sucked even more to know that at this moment that was where she was headed, away from the sunshine and the practice fields where the Hemery Heroines were gathering for practice.

Sighing, she reached for the door to building C.

"Buffy!"

She paused, glancing back.

"Buffy! Stop!"

Recognition hit. Oh come on. Not now.

She turned around, "What do you want?"

Merrick slowed to a stop. He'd been running to catch up with her, and even that minor expenditure seemed to have tired him. "I'm glad I caught you," he wheezed.

She raised her eyebrows. "For what, dare I ask?"

"There's an urgent matter," he grabbed her arm and steered her around the corner of the building, where it was more sheltered. "A group of vampires have nested in Arcadia, and you need to take care of them quickly."

"That's kind of non-specific, and if you hadn't noticed, I'm at school right now. I'll take care of it later." She started to move past him.

He blocked her. "It's urgent you go now."

"Why? Are you determined to have me fail so I can be kicked out and move to Cleveland with you?"

He paused, "Have you reconsidered?"

"No." Her voice was icy. "The vamps won't go anywhere in the hour or so I have left."

"They may, and who knows how long it'll take for you to find them. Buffy, this is far more important than dancing around with pompoms."

Anger replaced irritation. "Listen," she said, poking his blue and yellow striped tie. "A, you don't get to tell me what's important, okay? This is _my_ life. And B, I'm going to detention, not to 'dance around with pompoms,' and I don't feel like being in more trouble than I already am, so if you'll excuse me?"

She tried to move past him, but he grabbed her arm again. "I am your Watcher, and I _do_ get to tell you what's important." She tried to speak, but he cut her off, "I've allowed you to remain here, in Los Angeles, and to continue your schooling instead of focusing full-time on your training, but you will not tell me what is and is not worth your time." He was angry. "It's not only your birthright, but your duty to take care of this. The Slayer does not get the luxury of being self-absorbed."

"Self-absorbed?" she repeated hotly. "Who the hell are you to call me that?"

"Your Watcher," he said again. "People live and die by your actions, today, tomorrow, and until your time has ended. You will do whatever is in your power to keep the world safe."

She glared at him sullenly. This wasn't fair, but somehow she knew that not only did he know that but he didn't care. She said nothing.

"You'll have to come with me," he continued. "I'll drop you off, but we must hurry. Every minute you spend here is a wasted one. If the sun goes down before you find them, we may not have the same chance again."

She studied his face for a long moment. "There's something here you're not telling me," she said. It wasn't a question.

He looked around again, as if suddenly remembering where they were. "I'll explain tonight, after you've taken care of them. It's time you knew anyway."

"Knew what?" she asked.

"Later." He turned and walked away.

She stood there for a moment, the petulant teenager in her wanting to plant herself here and remain defiant, but the rest of her knew deep down he was right, and, sighing, she trotted to catch up with him.

They said nothing to each other on the way to his car, or as they pulled away from Hemery. She wondered what he was keeping from her, and if it was even anything significant. Merrick was big into prophecies and cryptic messages from people who'd died a long time ago, long before she was born, and she always found herself zoning whenever he got into it. The Slayer may be a mystical position, but frankly she found most of the mysticism somewhat dull.

Something about this felt different though. Usually he was only too happy to share his vague prophecies, and if he wasn't talking now a part of her felt she wouldn't want to hear it when he did.

"I'm sorry," he said abruptly, cutting through the silence and her musings. "I didn't mean to be harsh."

"You were being honest," she replied mechanically, not entirely sure if he was wrong, or if she was even angry about it.

"I just worry about your priorities sometimes."

"I'm a fifteen year-old girl, Merrick. Making the switch from boys and hair products to monsters and demons takes time." But the truth of it was that she secretly hoped she never would change over. She so desperately didn't want this to be her life, and she knew he'd never understand that.

Her Watcher said nothing, eyes on the road. They went back to driving in silence. Something was obviously bothering him, because he looked even more worried than usual, but she couldn't bring herself to press. He'd said tonight, so she'd deal tonight.

Eventually, finally, they rolled to a stop. It looked like they were sitting outside Live Oak Memorial, a cemetery, which made sense given she was there to dust vamps.

She looked over at Merrick expectantly.

"In the Jerse mausoleum, the vampires have tunneled down to the sewer system. I don't know where they are in the tunnels or how many there are, only that they're there, and that they won't be for long."

She stared at him, mind catching on only one word. "Sewer?" she repeated weakly.

"Hopefully it's just the storm sewer. I don't think they like the ones for waste anymore than you do."

"Hopefully? _Think?_" Once again, she couldn't fathom why she was here. She could be sitting safe and snug back in room 228C, staring at a wall, contemplating the bag of truffles she'd nagged her dad into buying. Now she was contemplating vampires in sewers.

Instead of answering her, he reached behind them, into the back seats, and pulled out a sword. "Here," he said. "Assume you have stakes?"

"In my bag," she replied irritably.

"Take them out. You can leave your bag here."

Sighing, she bent to comply, reaching to the bottom of her book bag and pulling out her two emergency stakes. She shoved one into the interior pocket of her jacket, and another up her sleeve.

"I don't know what you should expect, so just expect the worst." She couldn't tell if he was joking or not, and she didn't care. She opened the door. "Good luck."

Grunting, she grabbed the sword and slid out of the car. It shined dully in the light. "See you later," she said.

"I'll be at the warehouse."

Buffy nodded and slammed shut the door, then set off into the cemetery. She had no idea where the Jerse mausoleum was, but she could see the little structures dotting the cemetery here and there, so it wouldn't be too much work to find it. It occurred to her that she'd never been here during the day, and she'd only visited a couple times on patrol. It was a quiet sort of place, the kind you didn't really expect to see people in—at least, live ones—and she figured this was a good thing, what with her wandering around with a sword like a crazy person.

Not that this whole thing wasn't crazy, her being the Slayer and savior of mankind and all that.

She approached the first mausoleum. To her surprise, it said Jerse.

Score one for Buffy.

The door was unlocked, and she slipped inside, letting the door shut behind her. It was gloomy, dark, and musty, and from here you really couldn't tell it was so bright and sunny outside. Cursing the fact that the dead didn't need windows, she stumbled around, searching with her sword-free hand for some kind of opening. She was just tempted to go back and open the door wide for the light when her foot found a hollow, and she cautiously poked the sword out into empty air instead of wall.

Score two for Buffy.

By now her eyes had adjusted somewhat, and she could just make out the hole in the bottom corner of the crypt as a gaping, black pit. All instincts told her to not go _in_ to the gaping, black pit of death, but as Merrick had pointed out, it was her responsibility.

Dreading what awaited her, she laid on her stomach and felt around the side of the hole, then inside it. She didn't find the floor, but she did find a metal ladder, which somehow didn't seem to go with crypts and creatures of the night, but, hey, she wasn't going to complain.

So she climbed, blindly, into the abyss. The floor wasn't a long time in coming, but it was enough that she felt the change from the dead air inside the mausoleum to the more earthy coolness of the air underground. She also noticed a light source from far away, directing her from the complete and utter blackness she now stood in to a distant pinpoint of grey.

She headed for the light, holding her sword out and to the side. She wasn't sure what she was expecting, but what she found was a lantern, like the kind for camping. When she looked around, she saw more dotting the tunnel, providing just enough light to expose a path from the shadows.

Well, at least she knew something was here. If they'd bothered putting down light sources then they'd obviously been coming and going a lot, or at least they anticipated that they would be.

She followed the path, wondering vaguely where vampires got lanterns, or a ladder for that matter.

The tunnel eventually let out onto concrete, and here the way was lit by little LED lights stuck along the walls. Below was a vast expanse of nothing, possibly the storm drain, which wasn't in use given the fact that it hadn't rained any time recently.

Not sure of the right direction, she chose right at random. Her shadow was huge and black against the opposite wall, and the whole place smelled like old concrete dust and mud. She could hear the skittering of little feet, and she caught a glimpse of a long, scaly tail disappearing into the shadows.

Rats.

She was underground, in a storm drain, slogging through rat poop and looking for vampires. What surprised her was how little this surprised her. This was par for the course for Buffy, a typical day at the office.

Self-absorbed her ass, she thought irritably. No one with control over their life would be down here voluntarily.

She paused, her eyes lighting on another pit of darkness, a maw on the opposite wall. The nearest LED bulb exposed broken concrete, and deep inside, she could just make out the grey of what could possibly be another lantern. So she'd gone the right direction, and something told her she was getting close.

Steeling herself, she backed to the wall at her side, and, gripping the sword tightly, she launched herself toward the void at her feet, then leaped over it. She hit the ground rolling, and she could feel what she hoped was mud seeping into her shirt as she pushed herself up.

Not giving herself time to think about it, she traveled into the tunnel. This one wasn't cement, it was earthen, but it didn't last long before it let out into another storm drain, this one unlit except by the little lanterns. Maybe it was abandoned.

She made to keep walking, but froze, hearing something. Voices.

She stole into the shadows, hearing her heartbeat in her ears.

"—why we came here. Usually, you know, situation like this, we go elsewhere."

"Yeah, but get in good with him and we're set. Would you rather be running ragtag out there?"

Pause. "Yes, actually."

"Well, you're an idiot, Bobby."

"Right, Phil, because Lothos always delivers? How many times now has he said he found the Slayer and she was actually there?"

Buffy felt the hairs stand up on her neck. Slayer?

"Four."

"And how many times has he gone all over the world chasing her?"

There was a long pause. "How many vamps you know killed four Slayers?"

"I don't know. How many spend all their time chasing them? We could just as easily _not_ come here and stay over in a town across the country. I hear Miami's nice."

"Come on, doesn't your name as a creature of the night mean anything to you?"

"No."

Buffy saw them move into the light of a lantern, which was in the mouth of another tunnel. She was considering following them when she saw figures approaching out of the shadows. Three more, and one was carrying a lantern.

"Got a long time till sunset," one of the new ones greeted. He looked vaguely like Mr. T. "Remind me again why we're down in this shithole?"

"It's covert," another one replied. He had what appeared to be a mullet.

"So are any of the abandoned buildings up on the surface. We're in LA."

"Yeah, but how many can take you all over the city no matter what time it is?"

Mr. T paused, then grunted. "Whatever."

"As long as we don't have to eat rats," a female one said.

"You don't," Mullet said. "I heard from Bill there was construction a few pipes down. We can take ourselves a couple maintenance guys."

She seemed to consider that. "Yeah, I can do that." She glanced around at her companions. "Want to come?"

"Nah," Mr. T said as the other two shook their heads. "Go ahead."

Nodding, she and Mullet turned and went back down the tunnel, bringing the lantern with her.

The other three vampires resumed talking, but Buffy wasn't really hearing them. A vampire named Lothos had come to LA for...what? Her? Is this what Merrick knew that he didn't want to say? She was on the hit list of some vamp who enjoyed going on safari?

Well, this was great. She was to be the hunted now.

But these five? They would be the hunted first.

She carefully crept forward, keeping to the shadows. She was so close to them she could almost feel their presence, and just when she saw that they were approaching the next lantern, she shot forward, stake slipping from her sleeve into her hand. She drove it through the first one, almost straddling his back as he fell, then disintegrated, beneath her.

"The fuck?" one of them said, and all at once it was a rush of commotion.

She was thrown against a wall, and the concrete knocked the breath out of her as she dropped her sword. Before she could get up, one of them had her in his grip—Phil. "Slayer," he said.

She saw Bobby running away, calling for the other two. Shit.

Phil tried to hit her, but she ducked, and his fist connected with concrete. She kicked his legs out from under him, then staked him before he could react. As she rolled back to her feet, she grabbed the sword, then made chase on Bobby, who was running down the tunnel the other two had gone down. She could feel the air rippling her hair, and she could hear their footsteps as they banged against the ground and echoed out into the tunnel.

His back was in sight, and she leaped, sweeping the sword across the tunnel, through his neck. It was like forcing an ax through a tree, but it went, and she almost thought he screamed as he fell, but then he was gone.

She was breathing hard now, but she heard the footsteps running toward her long before she saw the return of Mullet and the female. It occurred to her she should've hid and ambushed them, but at the same time she almost liked it better this way.

"Who the fuck are you?" the female asked as the both of them stopped to stare at her and her sword. Both of them were in vamp face, and growling like tigers.

"I'm Buffy," she said, "the Vampire Slayer."

They snarled and launched forward, and she brought her sword up to meet them.


	8. Fallout

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 2006  
><em>_Setting: pre-Pilot_

It was dark by the time she'd made her way out of the sewers and back onto the grounds of Live Oak Memorial. She'd gotten lost down there and had run into a few more vamps, who'd in turn run into her stake, but eventually she'd found her way back to the trail of lanterns and the steel ladder, and she'd returned to the surface. There, she had found no one waiting for her, and no one even around, so she'd trekked home, fearing what awaited her.

The fear was justified. Someone from the school had called her parents about her having missed detention, and she was forced to make up a fall story involving Tyler and a game of some kind out on the field—she didn't even know. If the lie was obvious to her parents, they didn't say anything, but she was now grounded and expected to return home promptly after school and stay in her room.

Which she'd done—happily—until midnight. Now it was later, and she was taking all the shortcuts she knew of between her house and Merrick's warehouse.

Her head was buzzing, thoughts oscillating between her home life, her school life, and vampires, this Lothos in particular. What did he want with her? Why kill Slayers? Was it a vampire thing, or was it just compulsion for him?

And what would be the fallout for skipping detention? She thought of Tina, and of the cheerleading squad. She'd been replaced by Miranda, who was first alternate, and it was with growing discomfort she remembered that the girl was actually pretty good.

What would happen if she was forced to leave the team?

She didn't want to think about that.

Sighing, she crossed through an alley in between a hardware store and a bodega, along the spine of a stripmall. The whole place reeked of urine, and some days she'd find a homeless guy or two. Exactly the kind of area she couldn't have been forced into at gunpoint a few months ago, but now she walked through it without a second thought.

And that was the reality of her life, who she was then and who she was now. One minute she'd made peace with it, and the next she was all inner chaos. She felt like a metaphor for teenage angst, only with less boys and more death.

A lot more death.

As if on cue, something crashed nearby, and she heard a muffled scream.

Without thinking, she ran forward and hung a left, to where the sound was coming from. She came out in an open area between a building and a chain-link fence, beyond which were train tracks. Right against the fence was a black shadow, and a woman under it. He had her pinned, and his hand was over her mouth, his head over her neck.

"Hey!" Buffy yelled, fear and horror making her heart skip madly.

He didn't look up, and before she could get to him, something bowled into her, knocking her off her feet. She landed with a grunt, and the vamp caught the underside of her chin with his foot. Her vision blinked white as she hit the corner of a dumpster, but it came back in time for her to duck and roll away from another chop, and then she was on her feet, facing him. He was growling under his breath, but it almost seemed to her he was smiling, and that didn't make any sense until she felt two strong, cold arms wrap themselves around her chest, hauling her off her feet. She thrashed, feeling like she'd never learned anything about fighting.

"Slayer," the one who'd hit her hissed. She looked away and saw that the woman was still there, still sobbing into the vamp's hand as he drained her life away. Ice traveled through her guts as she realized she wouldn't be able to save her, that she may not even be able to save herself.

In that moment, time froze, but it came back with a vengeance, and she cracked her head back into the vamp's nose. He stumbled and dropped her, and she let herself fall, sweeping her legs under his and knocking him to the ground. Before he could get up or his companion could stop her, she had her stake out, and she drove it through his chest. He dusted, and she spun to deliver the same punishment to his friend, but he jumped out of her range.

They danced for a few minutes like that, hitting, kicking, ducking, spinning. She caught one of his punches and sent him flying back, up against the wall, and he leaped into her when she approached, sending them both to the dirt. For a moment, she was pinned under him, and terror roared through her brain before she grabbed a hold of her wits, bucked her hips, and sent him rolling away. Just as soon as they separated, they returned, she on his chest, him flat on the ground.

"He'll eat your heart," he said.

"Let him try," she replied coldly, dusting him.

She pushed herself to her feet. The remaining vamp glanced back at her, his mouth bloody, and then he dropped the woman. She didn't flinch when he came at her. She just let him throw himself against her stake.

And suddenly she was alone.

Hurriedly, she ran over to the woman, then knelt beside her. She pressed her fingers to the hole-free side of her neck, then checked her wrist. No pulse.

She was dead.

Buffy felt numb. She'd been the Slayer just over a month, but she'd stuck mostly to the cemeteries, and this was new. What do you do? Call 911? The police? CPR? She was supposed to do CPR wasn't she, but she didn't know how, and that wasn't for blood loss, was it?

She stood suddenly, revulsion tingling up her spine. The woman just laid there, staring sightlessly at the sky. Buffy had failed. She had stood by uselessly as she died.

Dimly, she felt her head throb, and she touched her fingers to her forehead, then held them in front of her. They came back red.

Suddenly, she was afraid. What if they found her here? What would she say? She had to go, and she had to go now.

She tore away, running full tilt back into the alley, toward Merrick's warehouse. It wasn't far from here, just a few blocks, and she ran them all, never stopping. When she finally reached it, she slammed the door open and skidded to a stop just inside. The door shut with a _clang! _behind her as she stood there, breathing hard.

Merrick got up with alarm. "Buffy, what happened?"

"Alley, vampires," she supplied, sitting down on the nearest crate and burying her face in her hands. She could see the woman's dead eyes when she closed her own, and the bite mark in her neck. It was a stamp of her failure, of her inability to do her job.

She felt her hair being brushed away from her face, and she looked up to see Merrick touching the cut on her forehead. "You alright?" he asked.

She nodded. "Yeah," she lied. "Just...got scary for a second there."

He studied her for a moment, then fished a tissue from his pocket, which he pressed lightly against the cut.

She stared up at it. "You carry around tissues?" she asked. It was the first and only thing that came to mind.

"I've been fighting a cold," he replied.

"Great," she said softly. "Been exposing me all this time and never said anything?"

"Slayers don't get colds."

"With my luck, I'll be the first."

A hint of a smile. "Of course."

They stayed like that for a beat, then she reached up and took the tissue from him. He took that as his cue to back off, and he took a seat on the crate opposite her. "Buffy," he said. "I think you ought to know something."

"Lothos?" she guessed.

He paused, brows crinkling. "Yes. How did you know?"

She shrugged, fiddling with the tissue. "Vampires down in the sewer mentioned him."

"Oh," he seemed temporarily stunned. "How was that? The sewer?"

"Good," she said.

"Good." He refocused, "How much did you hear?"

She exhaled, "Just that he chases Slayers around the world, and he's killed four of them."

"Three," he corrected. "One was a Potential."

Her eyes flicked to his. "That makes a difference?"

His gaze slid down. "I suppose not."

She could've let the silence drag, but she didn't want to. "What does he want?" she asked. "Is he really just here to kill me?"

He met her eyes again, "You want the truth?"

"If I didn't, I wouldn't have asked," her voice was flat.

He shifted, "Yes. That's why he's here."

"Because I'm the Slayer..." her voice trailed off, and she glanced down at the tissue, at its red blotch. Her blood.

It wasn't a question, but he answered it anyway, "Yes."

"But..." she looked at him. "I don't understand. Why kill me? Why not just go somewhere I'm not? It's not like I can dust him in Cleveland or Boca Rotan or whatever if I'm here in LA."

At this Merrick got up and walked over to the crate he was using as a work area. There were a few books on it, and he picked one up, thumbed through it, then walked back to her. "In the _Trials of the M'yu'kver _there is a story of the Ascended Ones, or the Higher Ones. They were a cult back around 110 BC down in lower—"

"Chase," she interrupted. "Cutting to."

He looked slightly miffed, but this by far wasn't the first time she'd stopped him mid-sentence. "Anyway, the vampire named Zulrak swore that upon the death of the seventh Slayer, the Kingdom of the Seven Hells would open, and the sun would cease to rise, and it would be eternal night upon the Earth. Of course, seven Slayers had long since come and gone by the time the prophecy was written, so to those who followed his doctrine, it was believed that the vampire who killed seven Slayers would themselves open the doors to the Kingdom."

It clicked. "So Lothos wants to be the key to that lock?"

"Or use you as a key, more specifically."

She drew her legs up onto the crate and hugged her knees. "Oh," she said. That was all she could think off.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Lothos has been underground for a long time. The Council said they hadn't heard a word about him in over forty years. They assumed he was dead."

"But now he's back, and he wants to add my head to his collection?" she said gloomily.

"Yes." He didn't seem to know what else to say.

She stared at a point on the ground. Three Slayers, all probably better trained than she was, all dead by Lothos' hand. And now he was here for her.

She wondered, would she live to see her next birthday? Or even Christmas? Would anyone ever know who she was when he killed her? Would Merrick be sipping a martini on a beach by the end of the month?

No. She closed that line of reasoning. She wasn't going to be fatalistic about this. She'd said she wasn't going to let this own her, and she wasn't.

"I know what I'm going to do," she said finally, looking at Merrick.

His brows folded. "What?"

Buffy exhaled, then slid off the crate. "I'm gonna kill him." She folded the bloody tissue and stuffed it in her pocket. "With something nice, sharp, and pointy."


	9. Playing for the Other Team

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 2083  
><em>_Setting: pre-Pilot_

"You're off the team."

The words ping-ponged around her head as her stomach churned. Buffy was rooted to the desk in room 228C, staring at nothing in particular. She'd been sitting here at least ten minutes now, possibly longer, but she still felt like she was going to puke, and her face felt hot.

She was off the team, and she had detention an additional three days of next week to make up for her jaunt in the sewers.

The scene looped over and over in her mind. She'd approached Tina directly after fifth period to tell her about Holloway's pronouncement, knowing she wouldn't be happy about it. A part of her had expected the worst, but that part had been small, and she'd never truly believed this would happen. And now...now she was off the squad, and now what?

Juggling cheerleading with everything else had been hard, even before she'd been forced to miss practice, she could admit that much. Remembering the motions and keeping in time with everyone else was difficult when she was also trying to remember the right way to kick, punch, flip, and use weapons, and after awhile it'd even come to seem trivial. But she'd almost liked it for how trivial it was, as at a part of her life that was free of long-term consequence. It was her connection to her friends, to the in-crowd, and insurance against the social leprosy that was detention.

Now it was gone, and she felt a hollow inside. She didn't have classes with most of the other cheerleaders, and with Tisha only two. She'd been feeling the distance growing between her and the other girls lately, but with the squad in common, they were still brought together. She wondered how long it would be now before she was like the rest of the losers in room 228C, hanging out on the fringes of campus life, only at least these people had a peer group. If her connection to the upper crowd atrophied, she'd be stuck in social limbo, fitting in with neither the jocks and the cheerleaders nor the geeks and bookworms. Life at Hemery would quickly become hell, and she'd end up being one of those people who ate lunch on the way to class instead of at a table with friends.

And at that point, what would even be the point? She didn't have the time or the energy for her schoolwork anymore than she had time for cheerleading. Maybe Merrick was right. Maybe she should just let him take her away, so she could battle the demonic forces of evil in northern Ohio. Maybe Lothos wouldn't be able to find her there, or by the time he did, she would feel more ready.

Because she sure as hell didn't feel very ready now.

Mr. Scanlon's voice cut through her thoughts, "Time's up. Dismissed."

There was an immediate shuffle of movement as the six or seven people in here got up. Buffy was the last to rise, and the last to leave. She exited, then tapped the down button on the elevator, feeling too irritable to walk down the single flight of stairs back down to ground level. When it pinged open, she made to move inside, then paused in surprise.

"Ford?" she said.

Billy Fordham seemed equally surprised to see her, "Summers?"

"What're you doing up here?" she blurted the first thought that came to mind.

"Computer sci, up on the fourth floor. You?"

She shifted, "Got the yellow slip."

"Harsh," the door started to slide shut, and he stopped it. "Looking for a ride down?"

"Yeah." It occurred to her how awkward it was standing here like this, and she quickly joined him in the elevator.

He was smiling at her, and she managed a small smile back.

Ford was something of a fixture in her life, not an omnipresent one, but just like that one wonky tree you always remembered to glance at on your way home from school if your parents happened to take the right street. They'd shared a few minor classes back in fourth grade, the ones that were mixed fourth and fifth, but she hadn't really noticed him until the following year, when they'd shared a PE class. That year, she spent months making moon eyes at him and plotting conspiratorially with Tori and Abby as to how she'd win his heart. As far as she knew, he'd never known about her crush, since she'd never summoned the courage to express her feelings to him.

But then she met Josh and Lonnie, and drifted away from Tori and Abby. She'd gotten in with the popular crowd, and him with the budding computer geeks, the cool ones. Eventually the heat of her crush died away, and they'd become friends. Talking buddies. Not really after school buds, not exclusive let's-take-lunch-alone-under-the-palm-trees buds, but friends.

Of course, he'd left for Hemery a year earlier than she had, and in time they'd grown apart. Today was probably only the second time she'd seen him since he graduated eighth grade. But he was still the same old Ford, only taller and with an ear piercing.

Which was cool.

"Nice earring," she said, nodding at it.

He laughed a little, "Thanks. Duke and I got them together. You remember Duke?"

"I do." Vaguely.

"It was just something we did over the summer. So how've you been, Summers?"

The change in topic threw her. "Good," she said. It didn't come out as chipper as she'd have liked.

He arched a brow.

The elevator doors pinged open.

"Okay, I'm...okay," she backpedaled, stepping out. Ford followed her. "I dunno, I just had to quit the cheerleading squad."

He looked surprised, "Why? You were the starlit of the team."

She snorted, "Thanks. But, no, I wasn't, and it's...complicated." Her voice trailed off lamely.

"Complicated?" he repeated.

"Yeah, you know, I don't really want to talk about it." She didn't know why she had brought it up at all. "How've you been?"

"Same old," he said. "You know, nothing special."

Together, they exited building C, and he followed her as she headed down the steps toward the pick-up zone, where the bus was.

It seemed like it'd been a million years since they'd last spent any real time together. That had been long before she was Slayer Buffy, long before she was even cheerleader Buffy. It was back when she was just Buffy, and they called each other by their last names because they thought it was cool, and they spent their time complaining about how much homework they had after being assigned a map to color in. It didn't seem real to her that that had only been a few years ago, and that life had changed for her so much since then.

Was this what growing up felt like? Or was she even doing that yet? Did Slayers just bypass maturity on their way to responsibility?

She wondered if she was the only one in the line to think like this, or if they all had.

"Summers," Ford's voice was like a pipe to the cogs in her brain. "Making it hard to breathe here."

"What?" she said reflexively. "Sorry. Just thinking."

"Fate of the universe?"

"Yeah," she nodded, only partially serious. "Something like that."

They had reached the bottom of the hill. Lined against the street were the four buses, and kids were filing into them. Bus number three was hers, and she moved toward it on autopilot, almost missing the little brown car tucked to the side of it.

_Almost_.

She stiffened instantly, and Ford stopped beside her. "What?"

"Nothing," she said, eying the car and praying it wasn't what she thought it was. Apparently no one was listening, since Merrick stepped out of it and waved.

"Who's that?" Ford asked. He knew enough of her family to recognize a member.

"My..." she grappled for something, "crazy uncle."

"You have a crazy uncle?"

She shifted, "My mom doesn't like to talk about him. Listen," she turned to him, "I have to go. It was nice seeing you though, Ford."

"Oh," he said. "It was nice seeing you too, Summers."

"Yeah," she murmured, already walking away from him. She kept her pace slow and level as she approached Merrick, who stood there patiently, leaning against the hood of his car.

"Why are you here?" she hissed without preamble as soon as he was in earshot.

"Not happy to see me?" he asked breezily.

To that she crossed her arms, saying nothing.

He got off the car, "I'm your new tutor."

She blinked, then stepped closer to him, "What, is this some weird psych test of yours?"

"No. I called your parents," he cut off her horrified yelp with a wave. "We can't keep meeting for an hour at midnight. If you're truly serious about defeating Lothos, we need to spend several hours a day on your training."

"So you called my parents?" she asked weakly. "And told them you're my new tutor?"

"Yes."

"In what?"

"Math and biology."

"Why?"

"Because you told me you don't like them."

She shifted, not remembering this conversation. "Oh," was all she had to say.

"Your parents have agreed to let me pick you up after school every day of the week. Weekends we'll just have to revert to midnights again, even if it is disagreeable."

"Oh." She just stood there.

He opened his car door. "Come, we need to get out of this parking area before someone comes out and yells at me again."

"Wouldn't want that," she murmured, getting into his car all the same. "How'd you convince my parents you weren't David Berkowitz?" she buckled in.

"The Council gave me fake records, and I delivered them in person."

"In _person_?"

"Yes."

"This is great." Another thought popped into her head. "So now when I get home I'll have two things to explain," she said glumly, sinking into her seat.

"Two?" he repeated, pulling around the cul de sac and passing the first bus.

"I'm off the cheerleading squad."

He glanced over at her, almost looking happy about it until it occurred to him it probably hadn't been of her own volition. "I'm sorry," he said.

"Yeah, I am too."

They sat in silence for awhile as he pulled away from Hemery, back onto the street. Soon they'd be passing the alley where she'd let the woman die last night, and then the field where she'd found a former linebacker watching an evening game. The streets were collecting images for her, and not the happy kind with swing sets and morning picnics.

Her life was being eclipsed, to the point where her memories of Ford and Tori and Abby and trips to the beach collecting seashells seemed like someone else's. She'd said she wouldn't let the slaying encroach, and it hadn't. It had swallowed her whole.

"Did the other Slayers find it hard?" she asked, not entirely meaning to voice her thought.

"Find what hard?" he asked.

"The changes in their life?"

"Depends," he adjusted in his seat. "Some came from bad circumstance and were happy to be taken in and taken care of, some grew up with it their whole lives."

"But were there any like me?" she pressed.

"Some, but not mine. I really couldn't tell you, Buffy."

"Oh," she exhaled, then stared out the window.

Silence stretched between them for a few beats, then Merrick spoke, "I really am sorry, Buffy. But I think to some degree you can't be a hero without being a martyr."

"You think I'm a hero?" she asked dully, still staring out the window.

"Yes."

"I didn't ask to be," she muttered that more to herself, but he heard.

"Well, as wise men once sang, you can't always get what you want."

She snorted, "The fate of the world hangs between an ex-cheerleader and a guy who uses Mick Jagger as the basis for his platitudes."

"Armies of Hell beware."


	10. Alone

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 2821  
><em>_Setting: pre-Pilot_

_A/N: Warning, there is a dream sequence (again). Obviously have done Restless one too many times._

Buffy tossed her bare pillows to the floor, then carefully pulled the blankets and sheets from her bed. She bundled them on top of the mattress, then grabbed them all.

"Buffy?"

She glanced back. Joyce Summers was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. "Hey, Mom," she said.

Joyce was studying her. "Everything alright?"

Buffy gathered up her linens and turned, "Yeah. Why?"

"It's just, you never do that yourself," she pointed to the blankets.

Buffy shrugged, "I have to get ready."

"For what?"

She moved past her, into the hallway. "It's 8:30."

Joyce followed her, "That's not so late yet."

"I've been finding time moves a lot faster now." She walked into the laundry room, then set her bundle on the dryer. The washer was empty, so she started putting them in, first one, then another. Sheets, blankets, and pillow cases.

"Yeah," she nodded, "I know what you mean."

Buffy measured out a cap full of blue detergent, then poured it into the washer. The liquid soaked into the top layer of sheets, and she stared at it for a beat before shutting the lid.

"I can do that for you, Buffy," Joyce said. "You really don't have to worry about it."

Again, she shrugged. "You have enough to keep you busy."

"And you don't?"

"Well, they're my responsibility."

They stood there like that for a long time. Behind them the washer churned and thumped. She didn't remember turning it on, but she must have.

"I know something is wrong," Joyce broke the silence.

She looked away, "I don't want to talk about it."

"I'll be here when you do. Just don't let it get too much later." She walked out of the room before Buffy could say anything, and suddenly she was alone. It was dark outside the windows, and she could see the night sky and thousands of stars.

She needed to patrol. It was getting late.

She left the laundry room and mounted the steps outside room 228C. It was dark, and campus was deserted. She walked down the hill she and Ford had made their way down weeks ago. She would just take the bus, since the Owl would take her anywhere, even at this time of night. After all, she'd ridden much later than this before, and she had to get across town. Tonight she was going to patrol in Monterey Park.

Tisha and the rest of the cheerleaders were talking from their seat on the low cement wall bordering the flowers. Tisha waved as she walked past, but neither of them said anything to each other. Eventually she reached the bus stop, and she sat to wait.

"Buffy," Merrick said. He'd been waiting for her at the stop. "What're you doing here?"

"I'm going out to patrol," she replied, then waggled her stake. "See? Got my stake and everything."

He took it from her. "That's not going to help you."

"What do you mean?" her brows crinkled, and she held out her hand. "Give it back, I need that."

"You never did listen to me." He pocketed it.

"And you never listen to me. Is there somewhere else I need to be going?"

"It's not the destination, but the journey."

"Didja find that nugget in your last fortune cookie?" She stood up. "I don't have time for this. Are you going to give that back to me or not?"

"No. And it's not so late yet."

"Yeah," she started walking away. "Been hearing that a lot lately."

She crossed the street, then crossed the field, into the cemetery. Little shadows ran away from her footsteps, and she saw the brush moving. Yellow eyes glowed at her from the darkness, but she ignored them, heading for the plots. More would rise tonight. Merrick had taken her stake, but she would still stop them.

She took a seat on a tombstone to wait. It was an old stone, but the plot right in front of it was new.

"I never realized how beautiful it was here."

She looked over. Tisha was walking up to her, her long, dark hair pulled into a braid that trailed down her back.

"Yeah," Buffy said, "it is beautiful, isn't it?"

She stopped a few feet away. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"About you, and about this." She waved around them, at the cemetery. Distantly, trees rustled, and she felt her hair flow along with the wind.

She paused, "How did you find out?"

"The wrong way."

Suddenly, she was afraid. She got up. "What does that mean?"

"You should've just told me."

"I couldn't. It was a secret."

She smiled sadly, "That mattered?"

And then she changed. Her face was grotesque, and her eyes were yellow and dead. She growled.

Buffy backed up. "No," she whispered.

"Yes." She stepped forward.

Buffy turned and ran, back toward the fence, back toward the street, Tisha on her heels. She stopped at the chain-link fence, not seeing the exit anywhere. The only way to go was up, and she started to climb. Tisha grabbed her foot, then hauled her off.

"You could have saved me, Buffy," she said.

"It's not that simple," she replied, getting up.

Tisha threw her back into the fence, pinning her. "Tell that to your Watcher."

"My Watcher?" she repeated.

They stood staring at each other for a beat, then she kicked out, sending her former friend flying to the dirt. She didn't have a stake, so she ran, this time leaping the fence, and rolling out to the street. The warehouse was there, ugly, peeling paint and all, and she dashed to the door, to find it locked.

"Merrick?" she called.

There was no reply.

She hit against it with all her strength, and it burst open. The warehouse was filled with vampires, and they all turned to glare at her. Merrick was in the knot of them, next to one in a great black cloak. He was the only one who hadn't taken vamp face, and he smiled at her.

"Found you," he said.

"No!" she shouted, realization dawning. She knew what was going to happen. "No, you're fighting _me_." She tried to move forward, but the other vampires grabbed her, by the wrists, arms, the waist, her hair, pulling her back.

Lothos changed, and he grinned at her evilly before turning to Merrick, who seemed to be paralyzed there. She wanted to yell again, but a vamp had clamped his hand over her mouth, and no amount of writhing could get her free. _Merrick! _she screamed desperately, but no sound came out.

Lothos grabbed her Watcher by the throat.

_No! No!_ she wasn't making sound. He couldn't hear her.

"Buffy!" one of the vampires who had her wrist said.

_Shut up!_

"Buffy!"

_Dear god, this isn't happening..._

"_Buffy!_"

She shot up.

She was in her room, tangled in her blankets. One of them was on the floor, and her pillows had worked themselves into a cocoon around her.

Her mother was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding one of her wrists. "Buffy?" she said. She smelled vaguely like cigarettes. "Are you alright?"

"Mom," she said, breathing hard. She couldn't remember what had happened, or what was going on.

"Buffy, I think you were having a nightmare."

"Nightmare?" she repeated. Nightmare.

And then it all slammed back to her. Tisha the vampire, and Lothos. Lothos and Merrick.

Merrick.

Panic and fear constricted her throat, but she forced it down, trying to keep her composure. That dream hadn't felt normal. She needed to go. "Yeah, it was a bad dream," she said, keeping her tone level. "Did I wake you up?"

"No," she said. "I was going for a glass of water when I heard you." She studied her for a beat. "You sure you're alright?"

"Yeah," she lied, smiling weakly.

Her mom sat there for awhile, what seemed like eons. Finally, she got up, then headed to the door. "Open or closed?" she asked.

"Closed," Buffy said, already counting the moments until she could dash for it.

Joyce smiled, "Good night."

She forced a smile back, and then the door was shut, and she was alone.

She shot to her feet.

She didn't know why, or how, but at least some of that wasn't just a dream. She hadn't had a dream like that for two months now, since back in August when she'd first gotten visions of other Slayers. It felt different to her. The details were too sharp.

She threw on the first clothes she could find, then stuffed her feet into her sneakers. Not bothering with a coat, she fished her stake from her bag, moved to the window, and pushed it open.

She didn't have time to wait at the stop for the bus, so she was just going to have to take her bike. Risky because it required opening doors, but she didn't have a choice, and it would take far too long to walk the streets.

Buffy slipped out the window and rolled to her feet on the grass, then walked to the garage. Nestled in one of her mother's plants was the spare key, and she quickly grabbed it and turned the lock with it. Her bike was behind the car, unused for so long, and she grabbed it and wheeled it outside. The moment she cleared the door, she mounted it, then sped off.

It'd been almost three weeks since Merrick had begun "tutoring" her after school, but other than increased vampire activity, they hadn't run across Lothos once. She had started to suspect that the Watcher's Council had been wrong about this whole thing, and that the vampires who knew of Lothos were just a fluke, but now she knew with frightening clarity that he was very real, and that he now knew who she was, or at least had located her Watcher. She didn't know what she was going to find in the warehouse, but she prayed that her dream was merely prophetic and not in real-time.

She kicked the bike faster, flying over the streets at a speed that would've scared her in a saner moment. Right now she didn't have time for caution, and if she fell, she was confident Slayer strength came prepackaged with blacktop protection.

She thought of Tisha, remembering the horror of the realization that she had changed. She couldn't go to her house at this hour to check on her, on the off-chance that she was wrong and her dream had been just a dream, but the part of her swirling in fear didn't want to heed that. She'd been growing apart from all her friends, even Tisha, but she still wanted to know she was safe.

Maybe she would just check on her on her way back from seeing Merrick and determining that he was fine. Just to ease her sanity.

She rounded the turn up onto Elm Street, near where a few strip malls were. It occurred to her she didn't know how long she'd been riding, but she was getting close.

Throwing caution to the wind, she crossed the street directly. No cars appeared, and she wasn't killed as she safely reached the other side, then rode up onto the sidewalk, then the parking lot, and then through the gap between the bodega and the hardware store. She flew down the alley heedlessly, passing broken boxes and old dumpsters and piles of trash, past the little open area where she'd let the woman die, past the train tracks, and back into the alley. Finally she reached the warehouse block, and she aimed for the last one on the left, the one nearest the tracks.

When she finally reached it, she skidded to a stop and let the bike fall as she leaped clear of it and ran the final distance to the door. It was unlocked, and she wrenched it open with more force than was necessary, sending it clanging against the wall. She walked inside.

It was dark, and the familiar smell of sawdust and old wood enveloped her. The only light was coming in from the windows that bordered the ceiling, but it was barely enough to penetrate the gloom.

"Merrick?" she called, sounding scared and small. "Merrick?"

No reply.

"Merrick, it's Buffy," she tried again. "I...had a dream."

Nothing.

"I know this is going to sound ridiculous, and I know it's late," she kept rambling, searching along the wall for the light switch, "but I just got scared, you know? I wanted you to tell me if it means anything." She found the switch. "Merrick?" She flicked it.

The lights came on with a buzz, throwing the warehouse into sudden relief. There were the crates and her sawdust bags, the rack with the two training swords, the little open box where they stored a bunch of extra stakes.

And the lump on the ground.

Her breath froze in her lungs, blood turning to ice.

No. No! _No!_

She ran forward, feeling sick, her heart a knot in her chest. Between the pile of extra bags and the door to the spare room Merrick had converted to a bedroom was the lump, but as she approached she finally recognized it for what it was, for what she knew it was.

"Merrick," she whispered, sinking to her knees. It occurred to her she didn't even know his first name, or if he'd ever told it told her. "I'm sorry," she said.

He was staring sightlessly at the ceiling. There was no blood on him anywhere, no holes in his neck, but he was dead. She didn't have to check to know that.

She reached out to touch him, but she was afraid, and her fingers dropped back to her lap.

This wasn't real. This wasn't right. What was she supposed to do?

It hit her suddenly. She was alone. She didn't know how to get in contact with the Watcher's Council, to tell them Merrick was dead, that she needed a new Watcher. She was going to face Lothos alone, and she was going to die as he had.

"Slayer," a voice hissed from faraway.

She flinched and rose, positioning herself protectively in front of Merrick as she pulled out her stake. It was all instinct.

"So we got the right place."

There was just one, and he stepped out of the shadows. It wasn't the cloaked figure from her dream, just an ordinary vamp. He looked so grotesque, like a monster, and he _was_ a monster.

Sudden fury burst through the tightness of her guts, and heat roared through her veins. In a moment, she closed on him, slamming him back against the wall.

"Did you do this?" she bellowed.

He didn't answer her, and she forced him up higher. "Did you do this?" she repeated.

Again, no answer. She hit him, then again, and again. He struggled, but her grip was steel, and he couldn't move.

"No," he said finally. "But I watched."

Some feral sound ripped out of her, and she threw him, hard, against the nearest crate. It broke as he went crashing back against the opposite wall, but she didn't let him get up before she was on top of him, hitting him over and over, the stake forgotten on the floor.

"You were after _me_," she shouted. "I'm going to kill you, and then I'm going to kill him."

"See you try," he spat venomously, his face already a mash of pulp. She could barely see the bumps on his face anymore under all the blood her fists were producing.

She didn't know how long she hit him before she got up, threw him against the wall, and grabbed her stake.

"This is the last mistake he ever made," she said coldly, then drove it through him.

She stared into his eyes in that split second before he dusted, feeling a sick sort of satisfaction in his fear, and then he was gone.

The rage drained out of her quickly, and suddenly she felt cold and numb. Her head ached, and her limbs felt heavy.

She walked back over to Merrick, then knelt beside him. "I'm sorry," she said again, hollowly. She felt nauseous. "I'm just..." her voice trailed off.

She didn't know what to say.

She was alone.


	11. Winter is Coming

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 1382  
><em>_Setting: pre-Pilot_

_A/N: For some reason I still have my old notes from high school, so I decided to use them. Yes, that is a real problem off my midterm review from a billion years ago.  
>Also, yeah, House Stark FTW.<em>

It'd been nine days.

Buffy thumped her pencil mindlessly against her binder as she stared at her math book, not really seeing it. She was sitting at one of the picnic benches between the field and the spine of Building A, under the shade of a tree. In the past twenty minutes, a few leaves had drifted from above to land on her workspace, and one did so now.

She caught it before it could blow away, then rubbed it between her fingers. It was bright yellow, a signal for the approach of a New England winter they would never have.

Exhaling, she let it go in the next gust of wind and watched as it drifted away, to join a growing layer on the field. Before the end of the week, it and the rest of them would be gathered up, stuffed into trash bags, and tossed or burned or whatever happened to leaves that fell onto manicured grass in LA. For some reason, that made her sad.

She looked back down at her book.

She had skipped classes most of the last week, sometimes to go hunting down in the sewers, and sometimes just because she felt like it. School had seemed like an extraordinary waste of what could be the last days of her life, but after a few days of skipping classes to mope she'd realized that wasn't any better. She may not have paid attention to more than three words her teachers spoke this week, but at least she'd come. If she was going to go out, she might as well do it without a more abysmal record than she'd already acquired since her calling. And if by some miracle she did survive the fight with Lothos—whenever he found her—she didn't want to have to face an impossible game of catch-up between detention hours.

She forced herself to read the words in her logic problem.

_If cars talk, then pigs are red._

_If there is a rally at school, then cars talk._

_If pigs are red, then the moon turns green._

She usually didn't suck at these, but today her brain was mush, and everything on the next page and beyond was proofs, which she was bad at even on a good day—and she'd had precious few of those lately.

_If there is a rally at school, then the moon turns yellow._

She crossed that one out.

_If the moon turns green, then there is a rally at school._

_If pigs are red, then cars talk._

_If there is a rally at school, then the moon—_

"Hey."

She jerked and looked up, pencil poised like a potential weapon.

Tisha was standing there in a school hoodie, her cheerleading outfit visible beneath it. She was clutching her bag to her chest and looking at her like one might look at a large cat in a zoo who's cage was uncomfortably close to the visitor path.

"Hi," Buffy said, voice catching in surprise. She put her pencil down.

Tisha stood there awkwardly for a moment, then gestured down at the table. "Mind if I sit with you?"

She blinked. "No." Quickly, she shut her book and shifted her stuff aside. Tisha took the seat opposite her.

Her dream on the night of Merrick's death had only been partially prophetic. Her mother was still doing her laundry and Tisha was still alive, which were two checks in the plus column, but seeing her since had filled her with a keener sense of loss than even the hours after school when she normally would've been at the warehouse hitting bags of sawdust did. Tisha had been avoiding her more and more since she'd been kicked off the cheerleading team anyway, so she hadn't figured her effort at doing the same thing would attract any notice.

Apparently, she'd been wrong.

"I know we haven't talked much lately," Tisha started. "You know, we've both been busy with stuff."

"Yeah, sorry," Buffy said softly. And she was.

"I'm sorry Tina took you off the team." She nervously pulled at the zipper on her front, as if suddenly remembering what she was wearing. "No one could do the flips like you."

"Miranda not filling the void?" she asked, not entirely without venom.

She seemed to color a bit. "No, not really."

The bitterness drained away as quickly as it'd come. "How's everyone doing?" she asked, feeling odd for asking something she would've known without question back at the beginning of the school year.

"Eh," she shrugged. "Chloe broke up with Sean."

She felt like she'd missed a bridge. "Sean?"

"They met when Kyle took her to the dance."

She thought back to that night. The surprise when her dad had gotten her the dress she'd asked for even after he'd said he wouldn't, that slow dance with Tyler to some awful power ballad she'd secretly liked. It all seemed so long ago now, even though it'd barely been two months.

"She dating anyone else now?" she asked.

"Matt. He's taking her to the dance."

"Dance?" she repeated.

"The Halloween dance," she supplied. "That's actually what I wanted to ask you about."

The Halloween dance. She'd completely forgotten about it.

It was Hemery tradition for the freshman and sophomore grades to have the dance as the high school alternative to childhood trick-or-treating or the college frat party. Costumes were optional, but last year she'd gone as Cleopatra in an elaborate outfit she and her mom had spent weeks on, while Tisha had dressed as Marie Antoinette, marking the start of her brief blonde period. It'd been so exciting then, she couldn't believe she'd forgotten it now.

"What about it?" she asked.

"Are you going?" Tisha said. "I know you're not seeing Tyler anymore, but I'm not seeing anyone either. We can go together and make fun of the couples and assign them expiration dates..." her voice trailed off, and she bit her lip. "I mean, it just sounded like fun."

Buffy stared at her for a beat, trying to process her words. She remembered how much fun she'd had at the dance last year, how pretty all the decorations had been, and all the cookies and snacks from the PTC that had lined the east wall. "I forgot about it," she said honestly.

"Oh," she looked immediately crestfallen.

"But," she said quickly, hating that, "I dunno. I don't have a costume or anything."

She seemed to brighten a little. "But if you did?"

She let the smallest hint of a smile tug at her lips, "Well, then I'd reconsider."

"Are you doing anything today?" she asked, glancing down at the pile of schoolwork Buffy had pulled out when she'd been trying to determine what to do with her time.

"No, not really," she said.

"Well, my mom and I were going to go shopping today anyway. Do you want to come?"

She realized she'd already fallen into the trap when she saw the pleading look in Tisha's eyes. "Sure," she said.

Tisha seemed to glow slightly at the prospect. "Come on then," she said, getting up. "My mom'll be here in a few minutes to pick me up, and you can borrow her cell phone to call your parents." Immediately she reached for the bag on the side of the table, then began putting her things away.

Buffy took over the process after a beat, then hefted the bag over her shoulder and swiveled out from the bench. Tisha waited until she got up, and then they both set off for the pick-up zone.

For the first time in what seemed like ages, Buffy felt a feeling of normalcy. The darkness and the death that had so consumed her lately seemed farther away. She was going to the dance. She was going to be young, and she was going to dance to music with her fellow students in the darkened, school-free gym, and she was going to get away from being the Slayer for at least one night.

That wasn't too much to ask from the universe, was it?


	12. Fire

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 3093  
><em>_Setting: pre-Pilot_

_A/N: Warning, somewhat graphic fight scene._

Laughing, Buffy swirled off the makeshift dance floor as the first guitar plucks of Nirvana's "Smells like Teen Spirit" started. She and the rest of the room had just finished dancing the Macarena, a feat which required a recharge with the really good brownies stashed behind the cheap, prepackaged cookies—at least in her opinion. Tisha met her at the snack table, breathing hard.

"Having fun?" she asked before swallowing half a cup of lemonade in one gulp.

"Yes," Buffy replied, smiling as she pried a brownie free from its silver tin. "I'm glad I came."

"Me too. Bleachers?"

She nodded and followed her, a small pile of strawberries, a couple brownies, and a single snickerdoodle stacked haphazardly on a napkin in her palm. As one they took a seat on the third row of bleachers. Buffy adjusted the stake at her hip.

"So, explain your outfit to me again," Tisha said, munching on a peanut butter cookie.

"I'm a vampire slayer," she replied. It felt good to be able to admit that freely to the world without anyone knowing she was serious, as if just saying the words had lifted a burden from her soul. "See? Got my stake, sword, cross, and everything." She gestured at the plastic sword shoved under her belt, beside her real stake and purse, then at her chest, where a delicate gold cross she'd impulsively picked up a few weeks ago rested.

She broke off another piece of cookie, "You said that was from a movie?"

"Yeah," she nodded. "Think it had Sandra Bullock in it or something."

"Oh." She ate the piece, then finished off the rest of the cookie. Tisha was dressed as some kind of regality, she couldn't remember who, but she was decked out in peacock feathers and a beautiful ice blue dress. Buffy's own plain white dress seemed drab next to it, but she had liked it for its simplicity, and she'd added sparkly black eyeshadow to her eyes to give her outfit more of an intensity. She didn't know if this was who the Slayer was, but she figured somewhere between femininity and a stake she had the idea. She was only sorry she didn't have her real sword, but even if she could have brought it onto school grounds, no power on this earth could get her to return to the warehouse to retrieve it.

She dragged her thoughts away from the darkness. She'd come here to escape precisely that.

Though not literally. The gym was mostly dark except for the lights coming off the mandatory disco ball, a few dulled overheads, and the candles spaced around high tables well away from the dance floor. All around were styrofoam tombstones, pumpkins, fake spiderwebbing, and a few rubber bats suspended from the ceiling. Up in a corner was the skeleton from the science room, dressed in top hat, bow tie, and plastic scythe, a cigarette clamped between its teeth. She loved the ridiculousness of this moment, a vampire slayer amongst cheesy Halloween decorations, fake weapons, and loud pop music.

"Good music tonight," she practically had to shout over the din. "Who's DJing?"

"Alex," Tisha said. "Can I have a strawberry?"

"Yeah, sure," she held her hand out, and she took one. "Who's Alex?"

"Um, he's in bio with us. Has the long blonde hair in a pony tail. Earrings."

"Oh," she said. "Alex. Right."

"Mm," she nodded, then pointed down at the dance floor. "Guess Cynthia finally realized her calling?"

She laughed. "Stripper outfit? Yeah."

"Gabe seems to like it."

"Yeah, but Gabe's got the sophistication of a turnip." She conveniently forgot the warm feeling of pleasure she'd gotten when he'd been eying her earlier.

"I guess they're meant to be."

She watched the pair dance together down there. The song transitioned to "Wonderwall," and the two moved just slightly closer together, smiling up at each other. Buffy remembered doing that the last time she'd danced here, with Tyler, and couldn't escape a tiny twinge of sadness.

Speak of the devil, there he was. He was hand-in-hand with a girl dressed literally as the devil, and she was laughing as he leaned in to whisper something into her ear.

Despite herself, she scowled. It'd been a long time since they'd so much as spoken, but she'd still retained a slight feeling of possessiveness.

"Who's that?" she asked, nodding toward the couple.

"Oh, that's Melissa. Don't you recognize her?"

She made to look closer, but they had already been swallowed in the mass of dancing students. "Don't we hate Melissa?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"So what's he doing with her?"

"Maybe he just wanted to make you jealous?"

"Yeah," she nodded her agreement, though she knew it probably had nothing to do with that. She redirected her attention elsewhere, at her palm, and ate another brownie.

Tisha was eying her with slight disgust. "How many of those have you had?"

"I dunno," she shrugged, munching. "Several."

"Don't you feel guilty?"

At this she grinned, but not innocently. One of the only and immense perks of being the Slayer was the ability to eat six doughnuts a day and never gain an ounce. "No," she said, unashamedly eating the last of it. "I inherited an excellent metabolism."

"I don't remember you saying that before," she said, still looking marginally irritated.

"Well, I changed my mind."

"Apparently."

The first thumping notes of Marky Mark's "Good Vibrations" started. She grinned, "If I didn't have all this food I'd go out and dance."

"Really?" Tisha swallowed the last of her lemonade. "Think I'm done for now."

"Yeah." She felt restless, like she had a lot of excess energy to burn. She hadn't found any vamps on her last two patrols, and with no training during the day and no action during the night, her blood felt like an electric current was running through it. "In fact," she said after a beat, "gonna go down now. Coming?"

"No," she shook her head.

Buffy placed her napkin on the bleacher. "Guard my food."

Tisha saluted.

She stood, then began making her way down the bleachers, which wasn't the easiest task with her strappy sandals in the dark. Finally, she gave up and vaulted the metal siding, landing gracefully a few inches from a trashcan. Just as she stepped out from the side of the bleachers, the music cut out abruptly, and the gym went dark except for the flickering candles.

A chorus of complaints rose from the black mass in the center of the room, but Buffy went silent, hand traveling immediately to her stake. She shrank against the side of the bleachers, heart already kicking into high gear.

Nothing happened for so long she began to call her fear off as paranoia, but then the doors on either side of the gym slammed open and several large, dark shapes made their way into the gym, clogging the exits. She couldn't see their faces in the dark, but she watched one disentangle itself from the group on the right and make its way to the stage.

"Slayer," it, _he_ said, high and clear. "Or is it Buffy?"

Her blood ran cold. She knew that voice, from her dream. Hands on her hair, her arms. Merrick in the thick of the tangle, and she couldn't reach him.

_Found you._

"I trust you got my message," Lothos continued. "Come out or not, it makes no difference to me. We've got plenty to eat until then."

The entire room was silent, as if it'd been frozen in time. And then he spoke again. "Go on then."

From the doors, the vampires poured in. She could hear their growls as they passed, heading toward the central clump of students. Then the screams started as everyone realized their danger and tried to get away.

Buffy stood there, paralyzed for the briefest of moments. She didn't know how many were here right now, but it almost seemed like hundreds, more than she could possibly deal with. She didn't know what to do, but one thing was clear: anyone who died here tonight would be on her, and only she could stop this.

Jerking into action, she ran to buffet table, mind only on getting the vampires' attention. She felt around till she found what she was looking for, then dashed back to the bleachers. Quickly, she made her way up until she was on the last level, as close to the wall as possible. She couldn't see Lothos anymore—he'd disappeared into the screaming mass of students.

"Lothos," she bellowed over the din.

No one heard her. Students were running toward the door, some escaping, some being dragged back. It was too dark to tell who was friend or foe.

She hefted the cake knife. The blade reflected dully against the light of the candle in her hand, and she could just make out the disco ball from the windows up near the ceiling. The decision coalesced before she had time to think about it, and she hurled the knife, right into the sparkling orb.

It shattered with an explosion of sound, sending a rain of mirrored glass in all directions. Everyone in the room froze, surprised for that microsecond out of their fear. In that moment, it was silent.

"Sorry, boys," she said, slipping her hairspray from her purse and smiling wryly, almost savagely, "but the all-you-can-eat line just closed." She held up the candle, then the hairspray.

A jet of fire bloomed into being, throwing this side of the gym into sharp, orange relief. The flame hit the fake spiderweb she'd been aiming for, and with a _whoosh! _they went up.

"What'd'ya know?" she muttered to herself, tossing the spray can and the candle aside, heedless of where they landed. "It really does work."

She leaped down to the floor, stake in hand. Both vampires and students were running for the exits as the flames leaped from spiderweb to the Hemery banners, which was what she'd intended. Outside in open space they stood a chance, but in here they would all have died.

By the time she'd made it to the center of the dance floor, the gym was mostly clear. A shape melted from the shadows, and she raised her stake warily. A few vampires remained, and they circled her loosely as Lothos stopped in front of her.

"Guess your buddies couldn't take the heat?" she said, feeling reckless and dangerous.

Lothos glared at her. He was wearing a long black cloak, and behind him she could see rows of styrofoam tombstones and pumpkins. Distantly, she was aware of the fire alarms going off. They seemed far away, even though she knew how loud they must be, and it occurred to her that the sprinkler system should've gone off by now.

"Clever," he said, gaze flicking briefly to the right.

She saw the shadow coming before he reached her, and she staked the vamp, barely turning as he dusted. "These the last of your brave disciples?" she asked breezily.

Lothos was afraid, she could sense it. And in that moment she realized something.

She wasn't.

"Come on then," she said. "Rush me."

And they did. There were seven vampires left, not counting Lothos, and they all flew at her from different directions. She caught one by his shirt and sent him careening away, kicking another one in the jaw in the same movement. One caught her arm and threw her forward, and she rolled away as he punched down, fist hitting polished wood, then leaped up. It was starting to get hot in here, and already everything smelled like smoke. She couldn't afford to drag this out anymore than they could, but she had a feeling Lothos would take her with him before he would turn tail and run.

As she punched, swiped, and dodged, she saw that some of the confetti on the ground was on fire. The west wall was already consumed in flames.

Would this be the end for her? she wondered, ducking and staking a vamp, then flying through his ashes to meet another. Would they find her body in the mess?

Was it worth it? she wanted to ask Lothos, whirling and sending her elbow back into the vamp's nose. She could feel it break. Was it worth it for either of them? Murdering the other Slayers? Merrick? Her? What did dying here accomplish?

She was knocked to the floor, and she kicked up as vamp tried to jump her. The heel of her strappy sandal caught him in the gut, and he flew off her as she rolled away to send her stake through his chest. He hadn't dissipated before she was on her feet again, throwing and receiving punches. One jumped on her back, and she threw him off, into another, knocking them both to the floor. She grabbed the first one by the collar and slammed him against the nearest wall.

She felt feral. Her skin was on fire in the heat from the flames and the adrenaline, and she didn't even feel apart of herself as she moved between the remaining vamps, striking, whirling, coming away, coming back. She wasn't herself. This wasn't training. This was Abby and the rest of the Slayers, this was something that went deeper than her and deeper than them. Something primal and intoxicating. She'd never fought like this before. She'd never _enjoyed_ it before.

She dusted two within a breath of each other, caught the next one with her fist. She hit him in the gut repeatedly, her hands a blur before she finally hit him hard in the cheek and staked him.

And then, suddenly, finally, it was just her and Lothos. Pieces of the broken disco ball glittered on the floor, reflecting the flames. Fire danced in his eyes, and in her own, she knew. He was afraid. She'd surprised him. He'd thought he would just come in here, break her neck, suck her dry, kill half the lower classmen, but he'd been wrong. If she was going to die tonight, he wouldn't be taking her with him.

She'd be dragging him down to Hell herself.

"Best you could do?" she asked, sweat beading her forehead.

"We haven't fought yet," he said.

"Yeah, I noticed." They were circling each other warily. She noticed he had a sword. "This how you kill the others? Surround them by your cronies, pick them off when they got weak?"

He said nothing.

She was disgusted. "So much for honorable battle."

He smiled, and it was ugly. "No honor in thieves and bad men."

"You're not a man," she closed the distance between them. "You're a thing."

He snarled, finally taking vamp face, and drew his sword.

He swung at her, and she danced away, feeling the air from the blade as it whizzed past her. Another chop, another swerve. This time she landed a kick to his side, but he grabbed her leg and threw her away.

She landed hard, managing to move away just before the sword came down, breaking a chip out of the polished wood. Her foot connected with his wrist, and he whirled away, not letting go of the sword like she'd been hoping. Then she was on her feet again. He made to circle but she cut him off, leaping straight at him with her foot pointed. It caught him in the chest, and he slammed against the wall. She grabbed him by the throat.

"Feeling remorseful yet?" she spat. Her mouth tasted like blood.

"Just getting started." She saw the blade coming for her head. Without thinking, she caught the blade. White hot, searing pain cut through her hand. For a moment she thought he'd cut it in half before she saw her fingers were still attached. Not pausing, she grabbed the sword by the hilt and sent it into his face with a crack. He yelled, and the blade dropped to the floor. She socked him hard, and he threw her off.

She skidded along the floor. She didn't have time to reach for the blade before he was on her, shouting something intangible. For a moment they struggled. He had her by the collar, but he was standing over her, not straddling her. She kicked him between the legs, then his guts, and she was back on her feet again. He met her.

She punched, and he dodged it, and she came back again. He caught her arm and she swung under him, kicking him in the stomach, once, twice. He knocked her off her feet again, and she rolled under him. The sword was there, within reach, and then she had it.

With a yell, she plunged it through his chest, then ripped it up, out his throat. It was barely clear before she sent it arcing back, through his neck.

He dusted.

"I won," she exhaled, dropping the sword. It landed with a clatter. "Yay me."

She stood there, breathing hard. Fire was glittering all around her, on the walls, the floor, the broken mirrors. Smoke was clogging the air, and she was _hot_. She felt like living fire.

Suddenly, it was hard to breathe.

Her legs felt like rubber, and she fell to her knees, coughing. The immediacy of her situation hit her like a mack truck, and she could feel her hand throbbing where she'd caught the sword.

The fire drained out of her. She had to get out of here.

Forcing herself to her feet, she ran for the exit. The spiderwebs had fallen from the door frame and had landed in a heap near the threshold. The heat coming from the wall was intense, searing. Her eyes burned.

There was no other way out.

But she was the Slayer. She was fire. And she would not be dying tonight.

She backed up, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply. Then she moved forward, leaping from the mouth of flames to the cool night air she knew awaited her outside.

...

_Secondary A/N: This chapter would have sucked without the help of my beta, Spookykat. Like Gleefic? Klaine with a side of angst? Crack? Go check her out._

_That is all._


	13. Water and Wine

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 1717  
><em>_Setting: pre-Pilot_

Scalding water hit her skin with a shock, and Buffy groaned, hands pressed against the smooth, white tile of her shower. The water was grey as it ran off her body, washing away the soot, the ash, and the death. Her entire body ached, and her hand was screaming now that she'd ripped the bandage off, but she didn't care. No shower had ever been more welcome.

She turned it even hotter, closing her eyes.

She could still see the gym, tongues of fire lapping out broken windows as firefighters attacked them with long jets of water. She'd sat for what seemed like hours under an oak tree, watching the chaos she'd created, before a couple cops had seen her and dragged her back to an ambulance and a bunch of EMTs. They'd fussed over her endlessly, seeing the bruises that had begun to rise all over her body. There was even talk of taking her to the hospital, but she'd passionately insisted against it, and in the end they'd left her in peace.

Her parents had been at some gala down at Dana Point, and she'd fallen asleep in the back of a police cruiser by the time they arrived. They'd met her with tears and panic, but not a whole lot of talking, and the drive back home had mostly been spent in tense silence.

She'd left them the moment they'd arrived back, mumbling something about needing a shower, and they'd let her go.

She opened her eyes, remembering the sight of herself in the mirror. Her face had been a mess of blood and soot, hair dark and tangled, dress torn and blackened. She'd looked like something feral, something wild, and she'd barely recognized herself.

Slowly, she ran her fingers through her hair, helping to get the water through it.

And she had been something feral. As she'd watched the gym burn, she'd realized something: the Slayer wasn't some mystical savior meant to balance the scales between good and evil. Tonight she'd felt what the Slayer truly was. The Slayer was death, the Slayer was pain, and she'd _reveled_ in it. She'd fed off his fear, just as he'd fed off hers.

She was a monster just as much as they were.

Buffy sank to her knees. Her skin was pink from the heat, but she felt cold. The water pounded against her head, and all around she could smell the smoke separating from her body.

Merrick had never told her about this, about the Slayer's dirty little secret. It occurred to her that maybe he'd never known, but she couldn't ask him now, and there was no one left to talk to about it.

In that moment, she missed him. Intensely.

Her eyes pricked hotly as she forced herself to her feet again, and she angrily worked some of her sweet smelling shampoo through her hair. Revenge was not sweet. Lothos was dead, but that hadn't brought Merrick back, and now she was adrift without direction. She knew no one at the Watcher's Council, didn't even know exactly where they were, and she wasn't sure they knew that Merrick was dead. What did a Slayer do without her Watcher?

Roughly, she wiped her eyes and washed out her hair, then killed the water and grabbed her towel. Her warm, fluffy robe was waiting for her on the back of the bathroom door, and she slipped into it gratefully, still aching despite the heat from her shower. Thankfully, the mirrors were too steamed up for her to see herself, and she walked to the door, not bothering to rebandage her hand. Part of her felt like she deserved to have it exposed.

She turned the knob, and to her surprise something fell back as she opened the door.

"Buffy!"

She froze as something wrapped around her waist like a cling-monkey, and she looked down to see the mop of dark brown hair that was her sister. "Dawn," she said, taken aback.

Dawn didn't say anything, and to her horror she realized she was crying into her robe, gripping her like she was afraid she was going to disappear.

"Dawn," she knelt, unsure of what to do. She'd never seen her sister like this, at least not in this way. "What's wrong?"

Dawn looked up. Her face was tear-stricken, and on the floor beside where she must've been sitting was her bear. "You're not dead," she said.

Buffy blinked. "Why would you think I was dead?" Not that it'd hadn't been a possible outcome tonight...

"The news," she sniffed. "They said the gym had caught fire during the dance, and I didn't see you in the crowds. And I looked."

And, of course, Buffy wouldn't have been in the crowds. She'd spent so long hidden behind the bushes that most of the news vans had vacated by the time she'd been dragged to the ambulance.

"I'm not dead," she said, not sure if that was the right thing to say. She smoothed some of her long hair behind her ear. "See?" her tone was falsely cheery. "All here, in the flesh and everything."

Dawn apparently didn't have a response to this, instead burying her face into her chest, arms linking behind her shoulders. Buffy hesitated for a moment, then hugged her back. Her sister smelled like fabric softener and peanut butter, and like their mom's conditioner.

"Come on," she said, retracting a bit. "I'll carry you to bed."

"Yours?" she asked.

"You can't sleep with me. You snore," she teased.

Dawn smiled, thank god. "But I can stay awhile?"

"Yeah, sure." She lifted her up, wincing as the cloth chafed against her still very raw palm, then carried her the few short steps from her bathroom to her bed, grabbing the bear in the process. She paused as she made to set her down, realizing they weren't the only two in the room.

Both her mom and dad were leaning against the doorway, watching her with equally unreadable expressions. In an instant she knew what they wanted, without either of them having to say a word, and she nodded at them. They disappeared as she set Dawn on the bed and crouched in front of her.

"Listen," she said, handing her her bear, "I've got to go talk to Mom and Dad. You alright here till I get back?"

"Mm hm," she nodded, taking the stuffed animal.

"Mr. Gordo can keep you company too," she said, pointing to the pig.

She nodded again.

Exhaling, Buffy adjusted her robe, then headed out the door, through the hallway, and into the living room, trepidation flooding her soul.

Her parents were waiting for her. Her mom was armed with a glass of red wine, wrapped in a soft green blanket on the end of the couch. Her dad had settled in his recliner.

Buffy took a seat on the side of the couch farthest from them, hugging her robe to her chest.

There was silence for a beat.

"How's your hand?" her mother opened the floor, looking pointedly at the unbandaged appendage in question.

Coloring slightly, she tucked it against her lap. "Fine...good. I mean, it hurts a little, but it's...fine, really." She swallowed, tongue feeling thick. She could face down monsters and demons, but here on the couch in front of her parents she felt small again, younger than Dawn, and like she'd been caught stealing from her mother's purse.

Her mother put down her wine glass. Her eyes suddenly seemed to mist over, and before she'd even processed the situation, she was enveloped in a hug, blanket and all.

"Oh, Buffy," Joyce breathed into her shoulder, clutching her tightly.

Buffy was stiff for a moment, then hugged her back, more desperately than she had her sister. For the first time in she didn't know how long, she felt safe, protected. She was home, and she'd escaped the fire, and she hadn't died, and at least for this moment she wasn't alone.

But guilt stabbed sharply through her guts as they held each other. She'd never seen her mother cry before, and to be the cause of it made her feel sick, almost evil. "I'm fine," she whispered.

Her mother finally let her go, but then to her immense surprise her father grabbed her, squeezing her even more fiercely. She suspected if she wasn't the Slayer, his desperation may have collapsed her ribs, but she let him hug her without complaint, her surprise melting to relief.

When they finally separated they all stared at each other, her mom at her side holding her uninjured hand, her dad on the coffee table.

"I feel like I don't know what to say," Joyce said, laughing a little. She reached for her wine and took long a sip.

Hank said nothing, glancing between them.

"I don't either," Buffy said, smiling in a defeatist sort of way.

"You burned down the gym," her mother continued, talking into her glass. She took another sip, possibly for strength. "But you may have saved all those students. I don't know if I should be proud or not."

She said nothing, watching as her mother finished off the wine, then poured herself more. She set the glass on the table, then rubbed her eyes. "I'm just so glad you're..." her voice trailed off. "When they called they still hadn't found you. I'm just so glad to see you here."

Buffy was at a loss for anything to say, watching as her mother clutched her blanket around herself, looking older than she'd ever seen her. She thought of Merrick, and that conversation she'd had back when they had first been getting to know each other, when he'd told her her parents would never know what happened to her when she was eventually and inevitably killed in the line of duty.

And now she was taking a peek into the Summers home without Buffy, and it scared her.

"Mom?" she said, her voice small and frightened, a universe away from the tone she'd taken with Lothos only a few hours before. "Hold me again?"


	14. Just a Girl

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 2372  
><em>_Setting: pre-Pilot_

Expelled.

Buffy backed hard against the wall, staring blankly into the deserted corridor. The world almost seemed to be melting around her, and the silence roared in her ears. It didn't seem right, it wasn't right. She kept mulling the word around her head, over and over: expelled, expelled.

_Expelled._

Swallowing, she slid down to the floor. The chairs at her side seemed like they were a million miles away. She rubbed fretfully at the scab on her hand, the last tangible evidence of her fight with Lothos.

It'd been three days since she'd killed him, and school was back on—at least it was for everyone else. Not for her. Not for Buffy.

Merrick had told her it would be difficult to keep her life, and she'd at least accepted the loss of cheerleading and a decent night's sleep, but this? Only delinquents with chains connecting the piercings between their nostrils and their eyebrows got expelled. They were the kids who smoked under the bleachers, who had sex out in the park, who were on the fast track to Juvie. Not her. She was Buffy Summers, B-average, cheerleader, socialite in training.

At least, she had been. But that was before she'd become the Slayer, before she'd been cutting classes, before she'd started fights, before she'd burned down the gym.

Her parents were still in there, talking to Mrs. Holloway. She wondered briefly what they were saying, but her thoughts were too erratic to ponder it long, and then she was back to staring. Her stomach was churning, and she thought she might be sick.

Inhaling deeply, she hugged her knees to her chest.

Things had been tense the whole weekend. The general consensus in the news was that the school had been attacked by a bunch of drugged out wackos with a tenuous connection to the Bloods, and that the school fire had been started accidentally. Behind the scenes, Buffy had been told that because her actions may have saved the lives of everyone in the gym, no one would be pressing any charges, but she was still apparently too dangerous to attend high school anymore.

And that was it. She was dangerous, wild, unpredictable. She had no Watcher to keep her on a leash, and everyone was afraid of the monster within her. She had gone beyond the level of types like Kyle. She wasn't just a bully or a rabble rouser—people were afraid of her.

Mrs. Holloway, her friends, even her family.

Once again, she found herself wondering what would happen if she ran for it. Not just from the area, but from the city, possibly even the state. She could go to Cleveland, or sneak onto a boat that would take her to England so she could find the Watcher's Council. Better yet, she could drop it all, move to Idaho, serve pancakes to potato farmers out in a county where the cows outnumbered the people. No one there would ever know who she was, or what she was, and maybe the Watcher's Council would assume her dead. Maybe that would be enough for them to call the next Slayer. Then she would be able to live to see her twentieth birthday, her thirtieth, her eightieth, have a chance to die in bed surrounded by the loving family she'd made for herself, and not in some alley that smelled like piss, with a demon who would dismember her before chewing off her face.

And she could do it too, right now, if she got up and headed for the door. She could be gone by nightfall.

But the reality was that she couldn't leave, not her post nor her family. It was too late in the game, and she couldn't stop seeing her parents' faces that night on the couch. If she left, she'd be letting them down, and they'd never know what had happened to her. And if she ever got lonely, she wouldn't be able to come back, and being alone scared her more than being the Slayer.

"Buffy?"

She looked up, blinking back the sudden moisture in her eyes. Her parents were standing there, her mom solemn, her dad unreadable. "Yeah?" she stood, swallowing. For half a second, she thought maybe it'd all been a mistake, that her parents had talked Mrs. Holloway out of it, that she could return to class.

But then Joyce spoke, "Come on, honey. We're going home."

She could feel the weight of their disappointment as she followed them back outside, to the parking lot. Opposite them, she could see the ugly, charred remains of the gym, and she quickly looked away from it to slip into the car. Her parents took their seats too, and they slowly pulled away from the school.

They drove in silence, Buffy staring out the window. All the buildings around here had a familiarity, and not just because she'd been driven past them hundreds of times. She'd walked by them it seemed just as many times, and suddenly the seconds slowed as clarity hit her like a steam engine.

They were near the little bodega and the maintenance store, near Merrick's warehouse.

"Mom?" she said before she'd even thought about it. "Dad, can I just...can you drop me off here?"

There was a pause. Joyce looked back at her. "What—here? Why?"

"Please," she said, her voice filled with a desperation she didn't know she felt. "Please, I...need to be on my own for a bit. To think. That ice cream place, down on Church Street."

Her parents exchanged looks. "You want to go to an ice cream place?" Hank asked.

"Yes, please," her tone bordered on a beg.

The car slowed a little. Her parents kept looking at each other, then back at her.

"You've just been expelled," her dad said. "We aren't going to celebrate with ice cream."

"I don't want to celebrate, I just need to be alone right now. I can't...I have to..." she didn't know what to say, but she needed to go, and the urgency of it twisted her insides. "Please, I have my purse, money. I'll walk. Just drop me here."

There was a stretch of silence, and the car rolled to a stop at the curb. Hank killed the engine and turned to her. "You're not meeting someone are you?"

"What?" she said. "No, no. I just need to walk, to clear my head. I know the way back. There's a bus station right on Elm. Please, I'll be home in a few hours."

Indecision passed through both their faces as her parents had a silent conversation, all the while desperation sped Buffy's heart. She was almost to the point of opening the door and making a dash for it when Joyce spoke, "Okay. Fine. But we want you home by five."

"Fine, yeah, sure..." she already had the door open. "Thanks."

"Bye," they both said.

She slammed the door, then set off. In the time it'd taken to get them to stop, they'd passed the little strip mall and gone over the train tracks, and it was all she could do not to run to retract the distance.

She had to get to the warehouse. She didn't know if she could stand sitting around her room, staring blindly at the books she would soon be returning. Both her parents had taken the day off when they'd gotten Mrs. Holloway's call this morning, and she could sense the fight brewing between them. She'd be caught in it tonight anyway, once her mother got into the wine, but right now, more than ever, she needed her Watcher. He wasn't there, and before this moment she'd been afraid to even return to the vicinity of the building, but she was past that now, and it didn't matter. She'd faced down the fire, locked eyes with the Devil—as it were. She couldn't live in fear of her ghosts, if only because they'd end up accumulating.

She was back in the alley, passing between dumpsters and broken bottles. And then she was passing the fence where she'd let the woman die, and then she was back outside the warehouse, her hand on the knob. Hesitantly, she pulled it, then walked inside, hand trailing along the wall. She found the switch.

The lights flicked on with a dull buzz, and Buffy stood there against the wall, staring blankly at the crates and the bags of sawdust and the scuffed concrete floor.

She didn't know why she was here.

Swallowing hard, she stepped forward. She didn't know what she expected to find, but it wasn't Merrick or his body. There was no sign of him anywhere, but all of his things were still here. His books were stacked on his crate, one lying open with a pen in its spine. On the east wall were the two training swords, and, below them, the extra box of stakes.

Everything was just as they'd left it last, frozen in time two weeks ago.

Hesitantly, she took a seat on one of the crates, then stared down at her hands, and at the long scab on her palm.

She squeezed it into a fist, closing her eyes. "I was expelled today," she murmured. Pain wormed its way through her body, constricting her guts. Her tongue felt like it was made of cotton. "I was expelled," she said again, louder this time.

The silence was loud around her, and she could hear the light buzzing. That was all the response she could expect.

She couldn't sit anymore, and she slid off the crate to pace. There were the the bags piled in the corner, there were the staffs he'd had her train with before giving her the sword, and all around was the sawdust and debris from her training. As far as she knew, he'd never cleaned up after their sessions, and she could see the detritus everywhere.

"Merrick," she whispered. "I don't know what to do."

Tears blurred her vision, and she wiped them away.

She could still feel herself in Mrs. Holloway's office, her parents beside her as the principal delivered the news. She'd been staring out the window, at the gym beyond the parking lot. It only seemed to be sinking in now that she was here, in the warehouse, that this was real. She'd never return to Hemery. She didn't know what she was going to do the rest of the semester, or the rest of the year. What kind of school would take an ex-cheerleader pyromaniac? And did she even have the energy to do it all again?

"This was why you had to come down," she said aloud. She was talking to Merrick, as if he was just in the other room, as if she hadn't let him die. "For the last Slayer, I mean." She exhaled shakily. "And this was why she was sorry."

She could still see her, the woman with the copper hair, and the desert under the blood red sky. She'd been so sad, and now she knew why.

Anger and frustration warred with her grief, and she reached for her sword. It felt cold and heavy in her hand.

"I killed him," she said, swallowing. "I cut his goddamn head off, Merrick, and I burned his ashes, and you know what? It didn't make a difference." Her anger ballooned, and suddenly she'd smashed through a crate with the battered old blade. "You're not any less dead."

She ripped the sword out, then sent it through one of the sawdust bags she'd left abandoned for so long. "Did you know when you first came here? Did you know what I was giving up?" She stared at the remains of the bag, and at that the explosion of newspaper and wood dust all over the broken crate and the floor.

It occurred to her how little she knew about any of it. Not only didn't she know Merrick's first name, she didn't know what he'd given up to come here, or who he'd left behind. Had he left his family for this? Did they know who he was, what he'd died for, or did they think he'd gone off and died somewhere like her parents would one day think of her? And if they knew who he was, did they know he was dead?

He'd told her she was a martyr for the grand scheme of things, that the universe was ultimately indifferent to the suffering of the warriors. But she wasn't a warrior. She was just a girl, and she belonged home gossiping to her friends over the phone, not standing in an old warehouse talking to her dead confidant.

"I suppose you'd tell me life's not fair," she laughed hollowly, glancing at her sword, and at the light shining off it. "That it's always darkest before dawn, that one day the light at the end of the tunnel won't be a train, but I don't care about the silver lining, Merrick, and I never did." The tip of the sword hit concrete, and she shrugged helplessly, "They'll send me a new Watcher, just as you were sent to me, and your Slayer before, and then we'll, what, go right on with it until one of us kicks it? Did you manage to come to terms with the inevitably of your death, Merrick? Because I sure as hell haven't."

Buffy stared at the blade, suddenly remembering Lothos and the gym, and the fire as it burned along the walls and on the floor and in their eyes. She saw him as she killed him, and felt the rush as he died.

And then she was back in the warehouse. She flung the sword away, hard, and it clattered along the floor before banging into the side of a crate. She sunk to her knees, staring at the sawdust and the newspaper.

"I'm just a girl, Merrick," she whispered, closing her eyes. "And you're not here to tell me what to do."


	15. Pinned

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 2537  
><em>_Setting: pre-Pilot_

The Blue Bunny House of Ice Cream and Frozen Yogurt had a wall that opened out onto the street, and little tables and chairs spilled from the polished wood floor to the concrete of the sidewalk. It was a popular high school hangout, given it'd set up shop just down the block from the playing fields and the now blackened gym. Tonight it was busier than usual because the Hemery Heroes had just won a game on their home field. Televisions along the wall showed sports games and news channels as students and parents ate desserts out of their little styrofoam containers, some of them talking, some of them not.

Buffy watched from her seat on a car across the street. She'd been adrift a little over a week now, and neither she nor her parents had any idea what to do with her. When she'd said she was going to go out to watch the game and the cheerleader's latest performance her parents had been surprised but had ultimately let her go, either because they'd hoped she would meet with her friends and begin mending her life or because they were glad to be rid of her for the night. The novelty of finding her alive and well had faded, and she'd begun skipping dinners to avoid the glares and the silence at the table. The only consolation she could take was that her parents seemed to be directing their anger at her instead of at each other, but she didn't have the energy to defend herself from questions she couldn't answer.

Exhaling, she sucked on a lollipop. Before taking off for the field she'd transferred several lollipops from her stash to her coat pocket, and she'd been working her way through them most of the night. This was her fourth one.

Her eyes lit back on the ice cream place, and on one group in particular, the one she'd been watching since she'd followed them here.

Tisha and the rest of the cheerleaders had taken over several of the outdoor tables, all wearing identical Hemery hoodies over their cheering outfits, and all working on their own cups of ice cream. They were laughing over a conversation she couldn't hear, all looking pretty, tired, and accomplished. She remembered other nights she'd spent in that same circle, in that same place, a plastic spoon in hand as she relayed her latest story. Now she was on the outside looking in, watching first their routine from her hiding place under the bleachers and now their conversation from a car across the street.

She missed them terribly. Hell, she missed her life terribly, and it pained her to realize she could no more walk up to them now than she could pilot her mother's Jeep to the moon.

And yet she'd been sitting here so long, watching them, trying to hold onto that sense of belonging even though it'd long since slipped away. She had no obligation to be anywhere, and she was sure if she found a payphone and called home she could lie and say she was going to spend the night with a friend and she'd be free until well into the next morning. But she didn't know what to do beyond following her former friends around or catching the next bus to wherever so she could monster hunt. She was tempted to just call it a night and go home, but her room was beginning to feel less like private space and more like a cell, and frankly she was enjoying the freedom of the open air too much to willingly give it up.

But, Buffy thought as a few of the cheerleaders—Tisha included—began to rise from their tables, she couldn't stay here any longer. She didn't want to be caught watching them, and she knew any confrontation would only ruin the happy memories she'd been dwelling on.

She slid off the hood, crunching away at the last of her lollipop, then tossed the bare stick into a nearby trash can. The street was mostly free of pedestrians, given that it was after closing time for most of the shops, and she made her way down it mindlessly. She had no plan for the night, but she was sure if she kept walking, eventually she'd run across a bus stop, and she would just patrol in whatever neighborhood it took her to. After all, she had yet to be found by another Watcher, so as of the moment she was working mostly off chance. She wasn't even entirely sure if the vampire population in this town was all due to Lothos. Maybe Merrick had wanted her to go to Cleveland because Los Angeles was normally monster-free.

She stopped and pressed the button for the crosswalk, then leaned against the pole.

What was so special about Cleveland anyway? She couldn't even find Ohio on a map. Surely the City of Angels was the place to be for the forces of darkness.

Something crashed dully, and her attention slipped back to the present. It didn't sound like a car accident, and the noise was coming from the alley.

Sobering quickly, she made her way toward it, hand on the stake in her pocket. It could be anything—drunk guy, couple druggies, a stay dog, rats—but it also could be something, and she couldn't take the chance that it was. As she approached, she could hear muffled sounds of panic, and she quickened her pace just as someone screamed.

Now in full slay mode, she dashed into the alley, past all the accumulated filth and old trash bags, and then the scene before her seemed to freeze as she came upon it.

It was that woman by the train tracks all over again, only this time it was a girl, maybe her age, and she was begging nonsensically from the corner she'd been backed into.

"Hey!" she yelled, voice strong despite how loudly her heart seemed to be banging against her ribs.

The vampires all turned to look at her. The shadows almost swallowed them in the darkness, but she could still see them. Confusion seemed to light in their cold, dead eyes, and one of the three of them spoke, "Who the hell are you?"

"Think hard," she said, slipping out her stake. "Sure it'll come to you."

"Slayer," one hissed.

"Yahtzee," she replied dryly. "Let her go."

The girl was staring at her, her face a mix of shock and awe. She didn't move.

"Go," Buffy said again, taking a step forward.

"No, stay," one of the vamps said as the girl finally began to rise. "We haven't had a chance to get acquainted yet."

The other two vamps were spacing out, getting ready for the attack, but Buffy wasn't going to hesitate this time. She lunged straight at the one with the girl, driving him to the ground. "Go!" she yelled again just before being thrown off. She hit a brick wall, but she managed to look up in time to see the girl making a dash for it.

None of the vamps had decided to make chase, and the one who'd thrown her grabbed her by the collar, pulling her off her feet.

"Think maybe we should keep on with Lothos' work?" he asked, teeth shining in what had to be moonlight.

"Shit no," another said. "Gonna do this for us."

The vamp holding her smiled, then threw her again. She slammed against the concrete siding of a wall, and her head throbbed painfully where she'd cracked it.

Ignoring that, she struggled to her feet, just in time to catch a punch to the jaw. She was being forced back, near a chain-link fence that separated the buildings from an old parking lot. She grabbed one by the shirt and threw him against it just as another caught her arm. He held her as the third punched her face, and she kicked him away, then flipped the other one over her shoulder, hardly feeling the pain. She could taste blood in her mouth, but she swallowed it as the one against the fence leaped at her. Dodging, she kicked him in the back, sending him sprawling to the ground

Then she was caught across the chest and thrown back against the fence, and the vamp landed endless hits to her face. Finally, she caught his hand, then socked him hard, sending him crashing into debris.

She suddenly realized she'd lost her stake, and she ducked a hit from another one, searching the ground for it. In that second, a fist met her chin, and she flew into a pile of old crates, crushing them as she landed. Jagged pieces of wood dug into her side, and she ripped one free, already preparing to get back to her feet.

"Oh my god!"

All four of them froze, looking for the source of the sound. Buffy found it, and her blood ran cold.

No, no, this wasn't real...

This wasn't right.

"Tisha!" she yelled, finding her voice. "Tisha, get out of here!"

Tisha had no idea what she'd stumbled onto—god, how had she even ended up here? She was standing there, terror palpable.

The vamps seemed to unfreeze, and they moved for her.

"Run!" Buffy yelled desperately, struggling to get up from her bed of broken wood. "Get out of here!"

Two closed on Tisha, and the other caught Buffy's cheek hard, and she was thrown from the debris pile. She hadn't even seen him.

Panic was constricting her thoughts. She didn't know what to do. The few times she'd run across people being attacked she usually managed to divert attention, but this was different. They had sensed her weakness, and they were targeting her friend because of it.

One of them grabbed Tisha, and she screamed, apparently realizing her danger.

She had to stop this.

The vamp on her grabbed her and forced her back against the wall. She struggled, her thoughts a singing note of panic. She seemed to have forgotten all her training, and the vamp's cold, dead hands were closing around her neck, and she couldn't breathe...

"No!" she shouted. She was being held in the air, and she sent both her feet into the vamp's gut. He dropped her as he fell and she cracked her knee into his nose, then socked him. He hit the floor, and she felt around the wood pile for a useable stake. Finding one, she drove it through his chest. He barely dusted before a force barreled into her side, and then she was being straddled by another vamp. He grabbed her by the shoulders of her leather jacket, then threw her against the chain-link fence, pinning her.

"I saw you at that dance, Slayer," he said, grip so tight she could almost feel her bones creaking under it. "You in your pretty dress, that fake sword strapped to your hip."

"Apparently it was enough to scare you," she hissed.

He forced her harder against the fence. "I want you to watch this."

She was pinned, and suddenly she realized what was going on beyond them. Tisha was completely paralyzed by fear, and the vamp had her encircled, his fingers tilting her head to the side...

"No!" she yelled, tricking to kick free, get her hands up, but she was trapped. "Goddamnit, you bastards!"

The vamp almost seemed to smile at her before his fangs sank into Tisha's neck. Her friend jerked as he yanked her back against him.

All the sounds of the world seemed to devolve to a roar, and Buffy ripped her arm free with a strength she didn't know she had, punching the vamp who pinned her hard, then again, and again. He staggered backward, and she made to run to Tisha, but he caught her arm, swinging her hard against the wall. She slammed into it face first, and then he cracked her in the back of the skull.

Dazed, she made the connection to duck, and his fist hit the brick above her head as she swept his legs from beneath him. He landed hard, and she stumbled forward to run to Tisha, but he caught her foot, and she fell. Sending her boot into his face, she rolled away. Nearby was the broken crates, and she ripped off another piece. Just as he jumped to meet her, she sent the makeshift stake through his chest.

She stumbled through his ashes as she rose, trying to orient herself. Finally, she found the two entwined figures, and she ran for them.

Just before reaching them, the vamp dropped Tisha, and she landed bonelessly. Blind horror tore through her soul, but Buffy hadn't fully processed the scene before she was being hit again. She allowed herself to get thrown back, and she landed hard, barely moving as he kicked her hard in the gut.

She didn't feel it. She was stuck in that moment a few seconds ago. Tisha was dead.

Dead.

She was gone.

She'd failed.

Oh, god.

Tears sprung to her eyes unbidden, and then rage flashed through her. What the fuck was she doing, lying here, letting him kick the crap out of her?

She caught his foot, then shoved him back. He hit the cement smartly, but caught her before she could leap on him with his shoe, launching her into the brick wall. She rolled to her feet, caught his punch, threw him back, and then she had her broken wood piece again.

Without another word, she staked him. She watched him dust, and then she stood there, breathing hard. The adrenaline was leaving her fast, and suddenly she felt cold, and she could taste blood, and her stomach was one howling mass of pain.

And she was afraid.

Slowly, she forced herself to turn, and she stared at the little black shadow on the ground. It was the woman in the alley; it was Merrick. Dead god, it was happening again. How often would she have to face this?

Terror gripped her as she forced herself forward. Maybe she was alive; maybe she would save her, and they'd forget this whole thing, and she'd go away, so she wouldn't be putting her or anyone else in danger anymore.

Swallowing hard, she stared down at the little huddle at her feet, then knelt. Tisha's neck was wet with blood, and she couldn't hear her breathing. Hesitantly, she touched her fingers to the blood-free side, then hovered there, her own heart hammering in her throat. She didn't feel anything, and she stared down at her, wide-eyed.

Oh, god, oh, god, oh, god...

She leaped to her feet, then backed away.

She had failed again. She had failed her Watcher and now she had failed her friend.

She didn't know what to do, didn't know who to call, who to tell, but she couldn't stay here. She couldn't stay another moment.

So she ran, hard an fast, away from the alley, away from the death. It was all she knew how to do.


	16. Talk to Me

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 2108  
><em>_Setting: pre-Pilot_

Moonlight streamed through her open curtains, washing the bed in cold, blue light, and throwing the rest of her room into shadow. Buffy stared into the darkness, still fully clothed, one boot pressed into her sheets while the other was folded under her. She'd been sitting like this since she'd first gotten in through her window, and she didn't know how long ago that was. It seemed like it could've been a few minutes ago or several hours ago, but she couldn't ballpark it. She was still in that alley.

The scene kept looping in her mind. What could she have done differently? What if she'd been faster? Smarter? Better coordinated? Why had she allowed that vamp to slow her down? There were so many things she could have done, and she hadn't.

And how had Tisha found her at all? She must've spotted her on the car as she'd left. Maybe she'd been trying to catch up with her and had followed her into the alley. But why? They hadn't spoken much at all since the fire, and when they had Tisha had seemed distant and nervous, like she had been afraid of her. Had she tried to catch up tonight to mend fences?

She kept seeing her face, her eyes as she'd stared blankly up at her. How different she'd looked in that moment, and yet she was still the same person. Why had she gone back there? Why choose tonight of all nights to try to fix their broken friendship? Why had she gone into that alley?

She didn't know, she couldn't ask, and she absolutely ached. Her teeth hurt, her body was bruised, and she was sure her face would be sporting some nice colors come morning. She couldn't tell if the pain in her midsection was from the abuse or from Tisha, but only the fact that she hadn't eaten much lately was keeping her from puking her guts out.

Again she saw the fight, and again she redid it. Over and over she redid it—something new, something faster. What kind of Slayer was she? Who was she keeping safe, really? How many times would she fail?

Her attention snapped back to the present as her door creaked, and she looked over, already preparing to move. She was still in that alley.

"Buffy," her mother said. "I didn't hear you come in."

She relaxed, but looked away again. "I was quiet."

Joyce came in, then took a seat on her bed. "How was the game? And why do you have your shoes on the bed?" she immediately grabbed her foot and pulled it forward. "I just washed your sheets."

"Sorry," she said, her voice throaty.

Joyce succeeded in removing her boot, then asked for the other. "So, the game?" she asked as she unzipped it.

"The game?" she repeated blankly.

"The football game. Did you win?"

It took a real effort to understand what she was saying. "Well, I didn't," she said after a beat, "but the Hemery team did. We did, I mean."

"Oh, that's good," she got up and put her boots neatly into her closet. "Was it fun?"

"Yeah," she said automatically.

Her mother sat on the bed again, "Are you alright?"

"What?" she blinked. "No, I'm fi—great. I'm great, really." She smiled falsely, knowing she'd overdone it.

"Right," she said, studying her. "So that's why you're sitting in your room fully clothed with the thousand yard stare? Would you give me your coat?"

"My coat?" She hadn't even realized she was still wearing it, but she was. "Oh," she shrugged out of it.

Again Joyce took it, and again she put it away, somehow knowing where everything went even in the dark. And then she stood there, staring down at her.

"Buffy," she said, sighing, "I really wish you would talk to me. I know it's hard to believe, but I was a teenager once. I could actually understand where you're coming from."

"You really, really couldn't," she muttered, though she hadn't intended to voice her thoughts.

"I get it," she held up a hand. "My friends keep telling me you'll talk to me once you move out, that then you'll have some miraculous revelation about all I've done for you. I guess I just get tired of waiting sometimes."

A combination of guilt and regret stabbed through her already aching core, "Mom, that's not—"

"No," she shook her head. "It's fine. I'll go." And just like that she was gone, and she'd shut the door, and Buffy was alone.

Her eyes misted over. Already she'd lost most of what mattered to her, and now she was tearing her family apart.

She remembered back when she was a kid, when she'd come home sobbing over Gabe Cantu or that harpy, Kellie Osman, and she would collapse into her mother's arms, and she'd stroke her hair and tell her everything was alright, and she would feel safe, home, protected. She remembered all the times she'd snuck into her parents' bed to escape the monsters she'd imagined in the dark, and then she would sleep there between her mom and dad, feeling safe and warm. Her mother had been her port in the storm, and she didn't know when that had changed. They had drifted apart, and she missed that feeling of safety keenly.

She just wanted someone to hold her, to tell her everything was fine, to tell her she hadn't failed, that none of this was her fault. She wanted not to be afraid anymore.

She just wanted her mom.

Without thinking, she slipped off the bed, then walked to her door. A light beyond the hall was on, and she could hear sounds coming from the kitchen. Maybe her mom was preparing a nightcap, maybe she was stealing a bite from the leftover pizza in the fridge. It didn't matter. She was still awake, and still around.

Buffy stepped into the kitchen, the tile feeling cold under her feet. "Mom?" she said quietly.

Joyce turned from the fridge. She had a slice of cheese in hand, and in the other was a package of pre-sliced salami.

"Buffy?" she said, sounding surprised. She shut the fridge, still holding onto her snack.

She stood there, frozen, unsure of what to do. She'd gone this far, and at that moment she knew she had to tell her. "Mom, I..." her voice trailed off. She swallowed, "Can we talk?"

She looked her over, and suddenly her brows dipped in concern, "Honey, what happened to your face?"

"Please," she said. "Can we...the couch?"

Joyce approached her, touching cool fingers to her bruised cheek. She smelled like salami and cigarettes and wine. "Did something happen? Did someone hurt you?"

"The couch," she said again, twitching away from her touch. She walked there herself, and her mother followed.

They sat close together, and Joyce put her snack on the coffee table, then reached for her hand. "Do you want me to get your father?" she asked, voice strained.

"What?" she said. "No, I...I wanted to..." She had to tell her, she had to say the words. Somebody needed to know. "Mom, I have something I have to tell you."

Her breath seemed to hitch, and she squeezed her hand. "You can tell me anything," she said weakly.

"Mom, I..." What to say? "Tisha's dead."

"What?" She paled. "Dead? What do you mean, dead?"

"I mean, she's dead. She was murdered and I watched and I...there's something else. Mom, I'm a vampire slayer."

She blinked. Obviously, if there was anything she had been expecting her daughter to say, it hadn't been that. "What?" she said.

"I'm a Slayer, _the_ Slayer," just saying it seemed to be lifting a heavy weight from her soul, as saying it at the dance had.

She seemed to be reaching. "You mean your outfit from Halloween?"

"Yes. No. I mean, Mom, I'm _really_ a Slayer."

She said nothing, staring at her like she'd just sprouted a second head.

"Mom, Tisha died tonight, and I couldn't stop it. She was just...there, and I was fighting, and then this vampire had her and I couldn't get there and she was just dead, and I watched her die..." the words spilled from her mouth in a torrent, and suddenly she was crying.

Joyce was gripping her hand tightly, her face white as a sheet, "Buffy..."

"And it's not just her," she continued, "Merrick, my Watcher—the tutor you met—I couldn't stop that either. He's dead, Mom, and I couldn't save him, just like I couldn't save that woman in the alley, or Tisha. They're all dead, and it's my fault," she wrapped herself around her mother's waist, now sobbing openly into her robe. She felt as small as Dawn, and as helpless.

Her mother seemed at a loss for words, and she just held her, stroking her hair. "It's alright," she murmured, and she said it over and over, just as she had when Gabe Cantu had called her ugly, and when she'd had nightmares after watching _Halloween _with Tori and Abby. It felt so right to admit it to her, to be honest. She wouldn't have to sneak around anymore; her parents would know about her, about her destiny, and they wouldn't think she was running off to do crack in the back of some squat house. She wouldn't have to live a lie.

"Buffy," Joyce said after a long time, when she'd calmed a few hairs. "Explain again."

She sniffed and pushed back, to look her mother in the eyes, "Into every generation, she is born," she recited what Merrick had told her so long ago, on the steps of Hemery High, and so many times after. "One girl in all the world, a Chosen One. She alone will wield the strength and skill to fight the vampires, and the demons, and the forces of darkness, to stop the spread of their evil. She is the Slayer. Mom, she is _me_."

"Demons?" Joyce repeated. "Vampires? Buffy, what—"

"I know it's hard to believe," she said, gripping her hand. "It took me awhile to believe too, but they're real, Mom, and I've fought them. Dozens of them, maybe hundreds. Vampires attacked the gym that night at the dance, not gang members. That's why I had to burn down the gym. Vampires killed Merrick, and they killed Tisha tonight. They almost killed me too."

She seemed to be struggling, "Dear, why would they...I mean, why would they attack you?"

"Because I'm the Slayer."

"Honey, are you..." she grappled for words, "You've just had a bad dream, is all."

"Mom," her blood was hot and loud in her ears, "I'm not crazy. They're out there, and I've fought them. Where do you think I've been getting all these bruises from?"

"You've been fighting," she said.

She dropped her hands, then scooted back on the couch a little, "You don't believe me."

"Sweetie, I...I mean, I don't know what to say. Vampires?"

She leaped to her feet and started to pace. "Yes, Mom, vampires. Vampires and demons and horrible sludge monsters with beady little eyes—they're all real. They're real and I've faced them, and they've taken everything from me. My friends, cheerleading, my Watcher, my school...my life. I didn't choose this. It chose me." She stopped and looked at her, willing her to believe her.

Joyce was staring at her, pale and dumbfounded. "I..." her voice trailed off, and she rubbed her face with her hands, laughing helplessly. "I don't even..."

Buffy stared at her, a growing feeling of horror ballooning in her chest. This was a terrible, terrible mistake. Merrick had been right. She couldn't tell anyone. A sane person wouldn't believe any of this.

Dear god, how insane she'd sounded just now.

"I..." she stood there, searching for something, anything. She had to get out of here. "I need to patrol. I've gotta go," she turned for the door.

Joyce stood, "Buffy, where are you—"

"I need to patrol. I'll see you later." She'd already unlocked the front door and yanked it open.

"Buffy—"

"Bye, Mom."

The door slammed behind her.


	17. Choices

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 2640  
><em>_Setting: pre-Pilot_

_A/N: For anyone wondering why I mention Cleveland so much, my interpretation of Cordelia's Wishverse is that in that reality Buffy had gone there with Merrick at his initial suggestion rather than remaining in LA with her family. While the Buffy of Buffyverse isn't necessarily aware of how different her life (and the world) would've been had she chosen a different path, I think here she still wonders._

Buffy watched the sunrise from her seat on a tombstone in All Souls Memorial that morning. She hadn't found anymore vampires or demons or sludge monsters over the night, which was just as well, since in her rush to leave the house she'd forgotten both weapons and coat. After riding what seemed an endless distance on her bike, she'd finally ended up at the cemetery, and, in a state of mild exhaustion, had fallen asleep under a tree. She'd woken up a few hours later, cold and confused. She'd never slept somewhere without friends or family before, and it had taken her several moments to figure out what she was doing there, and why.

When she finally did, she'd vomited into a bush.

She'd stayed in the cemetery a long time, aimlessly drifting from tombstone to tombstone, reading names and dates and wondering vaguely about the stories of everyone she passed. Some had flowers, some didn't, and a few she recognized from patrols on other nights. She'd thought about the people who'd left mementos for the dead who'd risen again, the ones she'd staked in their afterlife. She'd wondered if vampires remembered their families after the demons had taken over their bodies, and if they appreciated finding a couple wilted flowers in a vase after they'd broken free of their coffins.

She'd spent hours wandering, and then she'd finally left, only to realize she didn't know exactly how she'd gotten to the cemetery or how to get home from there. So she'd ridden to a bus station to wait.

Now she was on her third bus, sitting alone near the back and staring out the window.

Just as she'd been doing so often lately, just as she'd done in the cemetery only hours before, she was going over her life. Last night's fight, the conversation with her mother, her prophetic dream of Merrick's death, getting kicked off the cheerleading squad. Everything that had happened to her, everything she could have done differently, all the mistakes she could've stopped herself from making. Last night had been worst of all.

What had possessed her to think she could tell her mother about any of this? She'd sounded insane—worse than insane. Delusional. What would be awaiting her once she went home? By now her father surely knew, and she wasn't sure she would be able to talk it all away.

Again she thought about running, about not dealing with any of this. If she'd left before, Tisha wouldn't be dead. If she'd left when Merrick had first suggested it, maybe he wouldn't be dead either, and maybe they'd be munching on french toast in some diner in Cleveland right now. She wouldn't be worrying about anything, and she wouldn't be trying to force the disparate pieces of her life to fit together.

But for the thousandth—the millionth—time she reminded herself that she couldn't. The reality was that she was too afraid to face the world alone, and she didn't know where to go. She didn't know how Merrick had found her the first time, and if she left...if no one from the Watcher's Council ever found her, how long would she survive? Would she have realized the threat Lothos posed without Merrick to tell her of it, and would she recognize danger when it came again?

The bus stopped, and a few people trailed on, while some trailed off.

She had to stop going over it, and she had to stop entertaining the notion of giving up. She wasn't the only girl who'd faced this, and she was sure none of the Slayers before her had run away.

Maybe Merrick had been right. Maybe she was self-absorbed.

She rubbed her face with both hands, closing her eyes as she dug her fingers into her temples and the bridge of her nose.

Next stop was home. Next stop she would have to face the music.

She kept seeing her mother's face, that mix of fear and disbelief that had flashed through her features as she'd relayed her story. The Summers home had been in a state of mild turbulence long before demons and darkness had entered Buffy's life, but she'd never been the cause of it, and it almost seemed to her that things had gotten rougher since she'd met Merrick. It pained her to know she'd hurt her mother, and she still couldn't escape that night she'd burned down the gym, and her sister's wails as she'd cried into her robe.

She was the Slayer, a martyr for the long run and the greater good. But what kind of hero destroyed the lives of everyone she cared for?

She blinked, realizing the bus had rolled to a stop, and got up. She felt numb as she gestured for the driver to stay long enough for her to unhook her bike from the rack attached to the bus' grill, and the feeling seemed to spread from her brain to her limbs as she removed it and slowly wheeled it down the street. There were just a handful of blocks to go from here.

Nervousness cut at her insides as her shoes slowly ate up the distance. She went over last night's conversation again, went through the various things she could say today. She briefly considered the possibility that her mother would think she'd imagined the whole thing, that maybe that was what her father would believe. Her thoughts began to loop, rapidly turning one scenario over for another, and then suddenly she was standing outside her front door, staring at it as if her house had dropped right out of _Poltergeist _and onto her front lawn.

Which was almost a shame it hadn't. Ghosts she was at least somewhat equipped to deal with.

Shaking her head, she turned the knob, bracing herself for the worst.

No firebombs exploded; no men in white coats propelled off helicopters to strap her down and haul her away. She was just standing there, and the door shut quietly behind her. There had been voices coming from beyond the foyer, but they stopped when the door shut, and she could hear the dull sound of footsteps as someone approached.

It was her mother, and they stared at each other for several long moments. Joyce's eyes were glassy with tears, and without a word she wrapped her in a soft hug. "Buffy," she breathed.

"I'm sorry, Mom," Buffy murmured into her chest, not knowing what else to say.

They separated, and again Joyce studied her. "Come on," she said after a beat. "Into the living room. We have to talk."

Dread pooled in her heart, but she followed her further inside, to the couch, where her dad was waiting. She stared at him as her mother took her seat beside him, wetting her lips nervously, then sat on the chair opposite them.

Tension spread between them, so thick it was hard to breathe. Finally Joyce spoke, "We saw the news this morning. They found Tisha out by a parking lot near the school."

She swallowed. She knew Tisha was dead; she'd told her. Why bring it up?

"Buffy," she leaned forward. "No one believes you were involved, but we have to know what you saw."

"I told you what happened," she said evenly.

"Explain it again."

"I heard noises coming from the alley." She saw the scene in her mind as she spoke, so clearly she could almost hear the growling, smell that faint mix of piss and old garbage that had now become so familiar to her. "There were three vampires who'd cornered a girl. They attacked me, we fought, and then Tisha was there—I dunno, she must've followed me—and by the time I'd taken care of the other two, she was..." her voice caught. "I tried, I really did." She rubbed her face with her hands.

The silence rang for what seemed an age, and then Joyce broke it, "Taken care of?"

"Staked them," she supplied, dropping her hands and clearing her throat.

"As in...killed?"

She shifted. She had stopped thinking about it like that. "Yeah, in a way, I guess, yeah."

"Buffy," Hank said gently, "they didn't find any other bodies."

"Well, yeah," her mouth was incredibly dry. She wet her lips again, "They, you know, poofed."

"Poofed?" Joyce repeated.

"Poofed, exploded, disintegrated..." her voice trailed off. "Dust to dust and all that."

Her parents exchanged looks.

Joyce slid off the couch to kneel in front of her, "Buffy, if someone..." she swallowed and took her hand, "if somebody hurt you, you need to tell us. It's okay to tell us. We want you to."

In a moment she knew what she was getting at. "Mom, no one touched me."

"I know you're scared," she said. "But we're all here for you. You're safe now, Buffy, no one can hurt you."

"I know that," she dropped her hand. She wanted to get up, but she was cornered on the chair, and instead she pulled her feet onto the cushion. "Mom, no one hurt me. I'm telling you the truth."

"That vampires killed Tisha in that alley?" Hank said.

"Yes," she said, looking between them. "You have to believe me."

Her mother sighed almost despondently, then looked back at Hank. Without a word her father got up and walked into the kitchen.

In that moment Buffy realized that her parents may not have been alone when she'd first walked into the house. She felt the blood drain from her face as two new figures appeared from around the corner, and what moisture she had left in her mouth evaporated.

"My name is Jane Bennett," one of them said. They were both women, and they both stopped near the chair Buffy was huddled on. Bennett knelt close to her, where her mother had been a few moments ago. "I'm a detective with the LAPD, and I've been assigned to your friend's case. This is Katherine Kosseff," she gestured at her companion, "she's a psychologist who consults on cases like these."

The words repeated dully in her head: cases like these.

"Buffy," her voice was low and sympathetic, "I know you've been through a lot, but we need to hear everything, so we know who we're looking for. You won't have to be afraid once we've caught them."

Buffy stared at her. They thought she'd been raped, that she was too terrified to form a coherent narrative. "I'm not afraid," she said, voice hard.

"We need you to make a full statement," Bennett said, her tone just as level and soothing as before. "And we need to take you to the hospital, to get you checked out."

"I don't need to go to the hospital," this time her voice had an edge.

Everyone was exchanging looks now. The detective and the psychologist, her parents. They all thought she was crazy. They all thought she was a victim.

And maybe she was a victim, but of fate, not what they were insinuating.

"I'm fine," she said. She had to get some space between her and the cop and everyone else in the room, and she slid off the chair arm to stand. Her parents were still on the couch, but both the psychologist and the cop backed off, perhaps sensing her thoughts.

In that moment, she desperately wanted Merrick here. He could fix this. He would be able say something, to provide some magical fix from the Council, and she wouldn't be standing here alone, trying to talk her way out of the mess she'd talked herself into.

But he couldn't be, she reminded herself bitterly. He was dead, just like Tisha. It was her fault he wasn't here for her anymore.

She looked between all the people before her, searching for a friendly face, but all she found was sympathy and sadness.

"I'm fine, really," she said again. "I'm not lying."

"We know," Kosseff said her first words, stepping closer. Buffy backed away, and she stopped. "We just need to work this out together. Make sure we have all the details."

The condescension in her voice made her want to throw something at her, but she stood still.

They all stared at each other. Buffy didn't know what to say, had no idea what anyone wanted to do, and time seemed to have slowed to a crawl. The longer she stood there, the less she could stand it. She was tired, cold, and she hadn't showered since before her fight yesterday, since before this mess had started. More than anything in this universe, she just wanted to take a bath and sleep until sometime next month, possibly next year.

"I'm going to bed," she announced suddenly, breaking the silence. She hadn't really meant to speak, but now that she had she felt committed to it, and without another glance she turned around and headed for her bedroom. She didn't hear anyone follow her, and when she reached her room she plopped ungracefully onto her bed, then kicked off the ugly old sneakers she'd found near her bike last night. After a moment she buried her face in her soft, clean pillow, breathing in laundry detergent and her shampoo, trying to find some piece of her life that wasn't falling apart.

She'd made such a terrible mistake. God, so many mistakes.

Pain gripped her chest and midsection with overwhelming suddenness, and she wept silently, shuddering with the effort of keeping quiet.

God, Merrick, she didn't know what to do. She hadn't had time to process it all, to calculate her losses. She just wanted time, and she just wanted someone to tell her what to do.

She was just a girl.

She was just one girl.

She could taste her tears in her throat.

The sharp sound of a knock cut through her breakdown, and she shot up, immediately trying to pretend she hadn't been doing what she'd been doing.

She'd expected to see her mother there, but it wasn't. It was Bennett, the cop.

"What do you want?" she asked, sniffing and rubbing angrily at her eyes.

"You know what I want." She walked in, then sat beside her. "Maybe you don't think so, but talking about this will help."

She laughed bitterly, "Yeah, that thinking's what got me here."

Bennett studied her, "You mean the attack?"

"No," she shook her head but said nothing further, staring down at the carpet.

There was silence for a long time. She would be damned if she was going to break it.

"I'm not going away, Buffy," Bennett said eventually.

Buffy looked at her. The weariness was weighing heavily on her will, and she could feel it cracking. "Why not?"

"It's my job to keep you safe," she replied, her eyes still that mix of sympathy and sadness.

Again, she laughed, but this time it was helpless and desperate. If only it was that simple. She wished to god it was that simple.

"Will you come with me to the station, Buffy?" Bennett asked, holding out a hand.

She stared at it. Bennett was asking but she wasn't offering a choice. At this moment, she only had two options: go with her or run, and never stop running. If she ran she'd be free, and if she stayed...she didn't know.

The moment between them seemed to stretch out forever, and then she slowly, hesitantly reached out and took Bennett's hand. The cop smiled reassuringly at her, and together they rose and headed for the door.

Buffy prayed she had made the right decision.


	18. Left Behind

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 1701  
><em>_Setting: pre-Pilot_

The fake leaves of the fake bamboo plants rippled gently in the current from the heat vent, scratching quietly against the wall. The room was so quiet, so oppressively silent, that the sound was like pins scraping down glass. No noises from the outside world penetrated the office. It was like sitting in a bubble—a very white, very square, very unpopable bubble—that had been furnished with fake plants and uncomfortable chairs. The windows featured a view of distant lights between the slats of their long venetian blinds, the only evidence of houses in the night.

Buffy directed her eyes away, down at her knees. She'd propped her feet against the chair arms and curled her hands in her lap, and she'd let her hair fall into her face. She wanted nothing more than to sink into the chair and through the floor, to let the Earth just swallow her and puke her back out on the other side of the planet. If she was lucky it would just hold her there, and she'd never have to return to the surface and face the world again.

She swallowed, pushing one of her shoes a little harder against the chair.

She hadn't slept or showered since those scant hours under the cemetery tree. That had been this morning, but it seemed like at least ten years had passed between those moments and now. She'd only recently arrived here from the precinct, where she'd given a statement that no one believed and directed a sketch artist to draw her attackers, who no longer existed. Before that she'd been taken to the hospital to be swabbed, poked, prodded, and questioned, and while she'd never in her life wanted to leave a place more, sitting in that little interview room without her family for hours on end had drained what little energy she'd had left.

When the officers had finally left her, she'd been looking forward to simply crawling into her bed and escaping from the world for the next ten to twenty hours, but then her parents had walked through the door with Katherine Kosseff on their heels.

She needed help, they'd said. No one was blaming her, no one expected her to go it alone, and she needed counseling. She needed something beyond their scope.

What she'd needed was sleep, but she hadn't said it. In fact, she'd said nothing. Beyond a few grunts of acknowledgment, she'd followed her parents from the precinct to their car in silence, and she'd spent the ride to wherever they'd gone dozing against the back seat window. She'd roused at her mother's hand on her shoulder, and then she'd stepped out into the cool November air to see a depressing box of a building squatting against the dark outline of a field. As she'd mounted the short steps leading to the front door she'd seen the sign: New Horizons Psychiatric Center.

A psych facility.

Both her parents had been shown to an office after she'd been brought to some kind of waiting area, and she'd taken a seat, unable to process what was going on.

She wasn't going over her life, wasn't picking apart all the things she could've done differently, wasn't thinking about Merrick or Tisha or all the things she'd lost. At this moment, she had nothing. Her entire world had been reduced to one single, ringing cone of light in her mind's eye, and she couldn't seem to focus on anything. No thoughts, no speculation. She was numb—mentally and physically.

She just kept staring, listening to the dull hum of the air vent and the scratching of the fake bamboo leaves against the wall. She couldn't hear anything that was going on in the other room, or anything that was going on in the rest of the world. She was sealed off, trapped, stuck.

She wanted to go, but she couldn't seem to move.

She didn't know how long she sat there like that before there were finally sounds from beyond the door, and then it opened. Her parents exited first, eying her with something that almost looked like grief, then Kosseff, then someone new. She didn't know who he was, and she stared at him blankly.

He was black, middle-aged, wearing a white coat, tie, and starched shirt. His wire-rimmed glasses were pushed high on his aquiline nose, and he looked...kind. Everything about him exuded calm confidence and empathy, and at that moment she hated him. The emotion flooded her soul, drowning out the numbness and heating her blood.

She knew instantly he was here to save her. She wanted to tell him that she didn't need to be saved, to hurl it at him, but she was paralyzed in the chair.

"Buffy," Joyce said, "this is Dr. Stone, uh, Dr. Richard Stone. He works here at the center."

Buffy said nothing, glaring at him.

"He's, um, going to be your doctor."

Her mother was dancing around something, and her eyes slid to hers. "Doctor?" she repeated.

She shifted under her gaze, and Hank spoke, "He's, uh, going to help you, honey."

"With what?" her voice was cold, hard.

Everyone glanced between themselves, and as one they moved toward her. Her parents settled at her side, and Stone sat in the chair she was facing, looking at her over her knees. Kosseff pulled up a chair.

"I know this is all happening quickly, Buffy," Stone said, "but we're all concerned for your welfare."

"You can shove your concern," she said harshly. "I just want to go home." She heard her mother inhale sharply behind her, and she turned to her, "Let's go home, Mom."

"Buffy..." she said and hesitantly reached for one of her hands. "I'm sorry, you...you can't go home with us."

Her stomach went into free fall. She swallowed, "What do you mean?"

Tears glazed her eyes, but her mother didn't cry. "You're...Buffy, you're going to have to stay here."

"What?" she repeated. All the moisture had left her mouth, and the lights in the room seemed to be eighteen times brighter. She dropped her hand, scooting back in the inch or so of space the chair afforded her. "Mom..." she said.

She wouldn't meet her eyes.

Buffy looked at her dad, but he was just watching her with grief, like he was looking at her body, like she was dead and passed, as if she wasn't sitting right there. "Dad..." she said.

"I'm sorry, Buffy," he said. He was holding Joyce's hand.

Buffy stared between them, then got up so abruptly the chair slammed back against the wall. "You're committing me," she whispered. Kosseff and Stone were on their feet too, eying her as if she was a rabid dog on a threadbare leash. "You're committing me," she said again, more loudly, hurling it at them like an accusation. "Poor Buffy's got a few too many screws loose, so let's toss her in the looney bin."

"It may only be temporary," Kosseff said.

"May?" she rounded on her. "And what if it's not? I don't belong here." She looked at her parents, "Mom, Dad, tell them I don't belong here."

They said nothing. Neither of them would meet her eyes.

"Buffy," Stone said quietly, soothingly. It was probably his practiced talking-to-a-crazy-person voice. "We just want to keep you for observation. We want to make sure you're alright."

"You already know I'm alright," she sounded hysterical even to her own ears. "Didn't the hospital tell you? I wasn't raped. No one touched me."

"No, but you were in that alley. You watched your friend die, and you got hurt yourself. You've experienced a serious trauma, Buffy, and you need to deal with it."

"I am dealing with it. I'll deal with it better at home, in my own bed. Mom, please," she stared at her mother, willing her to look at her, "please, take me home."

"I can't," she whispered to her hands, voice cracking.

If her stomach had been in free fall, it hit the floor now. Her heart felt like it had been suspended in a bath of acid. "Please," she pleaded.

"With any luck, you'll be home before you know it," Stone said.

She turned on him, "I don't even get a choice in this?"

"No," he said evenly, firmly. "For now anyway."

She did have a choice, she thought wildly, staring at him. She could use his head to break through the window, and then she could run. Even as she stood there she could feel the air thickening into something unbreathable, suffocating. The room had been small to begin with, but now it felt like a prison, and she didn't know what she was facing now. Would they even allow her outside? Had that brief walk from the car to the building been her last experience in open air?

She could feel panic setting in, and Stone seemed to sense it. "We need to get her checked in," he said, looking behind her, at her parents. "You've already signed the paperwork. I think it's best if you go."

Buffy was rooted to the floor. Checked in. They were leaving. Oh, god, they were leaving her behind.

She whirled. Her parents were already on their feet, and she stared at them.

Her entire world was falling apart.

"Buffy," Joyce said, stepping forward. She seemed to want to hug her, but Buffy backed away.

"Don't touch me," she growled.

"Buffy," she said again, coming ever closer. She held out her hand, "Honey..."

"Don't touch me!" the growl became a snarl, and she backed up several steps. "Go, just...go." She looked down at the floor, catching her lip hard between her teeth.

Her parents seemed to stand there for a few seconds, as if undecided, and then her mom turned to meet her dad, and they slowly walked away. Buffy was left standing there, staring at the ugly, speckled carpet, flanked on either side by psychiatrists.

The realization hit her with the force of a tidal wave.

She'd been forsaken.


	19. Caged

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 1727  
><em>_Setting: pre-Pilot_

She was gliding along the ice, feeling self-made wind as it flowed through her hair and rippled her clothes. The only sound was her skates as they scratched long, thin trails behind her. It was silent, and she was free and flying, and the rink seemed to go on forever. She was alone.

She picked up speed, racing parallel to the faraway wall. For once in so many months, she felt nothing but freedom, and it was exhilarating. She could just keep going, just keep flying, and she would never have to stop. The world would turn without her, and she could be free forever.

The wind was roaring in her ears now, but she kept moving faster, never slowing. Her skates left long trails of red behind her. She thought she could hear voices over the roar, but she ignored them. They were beyond the boundaries, and she couldn't get there, and she didn't want to. She just wanted to fly.

Something cracked beneath her and all at once the ice was shattering and splintering in front of her. She skid around it, her skates raking hard into the ice, and it almost seemed to bleed as the growing maw in front of her ate up her path. She couldn't stop; she would fall right in. There was nowhere to go but forward, even as forward rapidly disappeared.

Something reached for her out of the dark. She smelled blood.

She wasn't going to scream.

She would fly in.

There was another crash, louder this time, closer, and her eyes snapped open.

Someone was yelling, and she was on her feet in an instant, muscles already taut for a fight, but a hand pushed her back. She looked up at the nurse, in an instant remembering where she was.

Her attention flicked to the corner of the room, where Harold and a knot of white clothes were the center of commotion. Harold was screaming something intangible, a downed table at his side, two nurses on the other. There were origami birds scattered around him, and he was crushing one bright blue piece of paper in his hand as he cracked his head against the wall.

Buffy stared, fear and revulsion warring inside her.

One of the nurses grabbed Harold, ducked a wild punch, and pinned him hard against the wall. Another nurse was moving the table to clear a path back to the rooms, and then they were hauling Harold away as he screamed and cried and cursed. Some of the people in the room were staring, but just as many hadn't looked up from their puzzles pieces and paint canvasses to see the commotion.

Buffy was still watching, the nurse's hand heavy on her shoulder. She didn't know what to do. This was the second time she'd watched Harold dragged off, too paralyzed to help. Even now she was rooted to the spot, heart in her throat, pulse loud in her ears. She was the Slayer. She'd faced demons and death and the fire, but Harold terrified her. Some of the people in here just had eating disorders and drug problems, but the few with three letter acronyms, that had that not-quite-right look in their eyes, she was afraid of them. There was something..._wrong_ about them, and it scared her that they were her peer group. When this month had started she'd never even met a crazy person before, and now—now she was one of them.

Harold was out of sight now, but she could still hear his shouts ringing down the hall. "You can sit now," the nurse who was holding her said.

Buffy looked up at him. He was just a scrawny guy in white scrubs, probably in his thirties but with facial hair that looked more like teenage peach fuzz than anything. He had all the command and authority of grapefruit, and she could snap him like a twig, and yet she sat at his command, like a housebroken puppy.

She watched as he walked away, pulling her legs up to sit cross-legged. Who was she kidding? She was no Slayer. Here, she was just a frightened, sick, meek little girl.

She tightened her fingers on her knees, digging her nails into the fabric of her sweats. The polish had worn off them, and they were already starting to look ugly from inattention.

She stared at them, swallowing hard.

She just wanted to fix them, to paint them colors and file them down. She wanted to comb her hair for an hour, use her own shampoo and conditioner and her cream rinse that smelled like mint that made her hair feel soft and clean. She just wanted to be home with her own shower and her own bed, to be free and unfettered. Here she was caged, trapped within the confines of the fenced in yard and ugly peach-colored walls.

She was suffocating, and her muscles ached from lack of exertion. She just wanted to fight, but there was no one here to save. She was surrounded by a mass of broken people.

She rubbed her face with both hands.

This place would drive her insane, slowly but surely. She hadn't spoken much at all since she'd come here, refusing to talk in the power circles and saying as little as possible in her private sessions. They'd been prescribing her antidepressants and mood stabilizers, but she suspected having a Slayer's metabolism stopped them from effecting her system, because if anything she felt edgier now than she had before. Every day the walls seemed a little closer together, and every day the psychiatrist's words seemed a little more artificial. She didn't know how much longer it would be until either she snapped or they started pushing harder for her to retract from the shell she'd supposedly constructed for herself in response to Tisha's death. So far they'd mostly been leaving her alone, but Stone had been more aggressive than usual in the office today when he'd been trying to get her to share, and she wasn't sure how much longer she'd be allowed to keep silent.

Hell, she didn't know how much longer she'd be forced to stay here.

Buffy dropped her hands, glancing around at her fellow ward-members. The girl with the black ringlets who never spoke was reading a book; the girl with the long, brown hair was working on a puzzle with her friend Steve, who always talked in third person. The girl whose name she thought might be Marci was picking up Harold's origami birds and placing them carefully back on the table. Chuck was playing cards with Charlie.

Where was the Watcher's Council? Didn't they know that the fate of the world rested on the shoulders of a girl trapped in a mental institution? Why hadn't they come for her? Why had her parents left her here? Why the hell had she thought for half a second that her mother would understand?

She jiggled her leg against the chair arm.

She was no one's hero and no one's martyr. For all she knew, the forces of darkness had already taken over LA and were spreading outward, secure in the knowledge that she was either dead or incapacitated. How could she fight when she had no weapons? How had the Council expected her to deal with Merrick's loss? Or did they still not know?

She hated them, whoever they were. She could see them in her head, a bunch of fat British guys in tweed with tea and crumpets, talking offhandedly about her performance next to the Slayers of the past. Did they even think of her as human, or was she a tool to them, as she had been to Merrick? Did they care that she'd been caged like an animal? If they eventually helped to release her, would it be for her or for them?

God, she hated them. Her blood was already hot in her veins, and it seemed to boil as her blood pressure rose and tears filmed her eyes. She hated them intensely. Had Merrick cared for her? Had he even liked her? Did she care that he'd died for him...or did she care for her?

She remembered that conversation they'd had so long ago in the warehouse. What was a Slayer to her Watcher? Was life and death just a business to them? Were they supposed to chalk it all up to fate and prophecies and leave it at that?

She couldn't believe this had all been predestined, that all the pain and the fear and the loss of the last few months only amounted to a footnote in the greater arc of Slayer lore. She couldn't believe that she was supposed to shoulder it all, to treat everything like a responsibility that came with some all important destiny. She just wanted to be a girl. To go back to school, to make out with boys in the back seat of their cars, to study and watch TV and complain about her dating life. She hadn't asked for this, and she'd never signed on to be dumped in the cuckoo's nest, to have her family believe she'd not only been abused but that she'd lost her mind in the process.

Maybe the rest of the Slayers had been self-sacrificing warriors, but Merrick had been right the first time. She was self-absorbed, and at this moment she desperately wanted her life back.

Angrily, she slipped off her seat, then stood there on the ugly grey carpeting. She didn't know if she could do this anymore. If she ever got out of here, she didn't know that she could go through all of this again. She wasn't cut out to shoulder the burdens of the world, and so far she'd failed in her duty to protect those who depended on her. If the fates had decided that she was a savior, they'd been wrong. They could find someone else to be the light in the darkness, because she was done with this.

Setting her jaw, she made her way back to her room. No one seemed to notice her as she left, and it suited her fine.

She would have to get out of here soon, one way or another, if only just so she could tell the Counsel where they could shove their duty.


	20. Lies

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 1419  
><em>_Setting: pre-Pilot_

She'd lied.

Buffy stared at the cream colored walls of her personal cell, right above the cheap Ikea dresser, at the little hole where a nail had once held up a painting.

She'd lied to Stone. She'd made up a story. He'd been pushing her for days now to talk, to share her pain, to let it out, and she had. The words had tumbled from her mouth, her memories spun together with bits and pieces of the murder mysteries her mother liked to watch. She'd described men who'd never existed, a fight that had never happened, and she'd cried for it. She'd sobbed for Stone, mourned for Tisha and for herself. She'd told him she'd realized the truth, that she'd seen through the nightmares of vampires and ghouls and had recognized that night for what it had been.

And he'd bought it all. He believed that she was just a sad, broken girl in love with an abusive boyfriend. That Tisha had followed her that night to try to get her to realize the path to self-destruction she'd been walking, and she'd died for it. And then he'd sent her from his office to get some rest, and now she was sitting here. She'd been sitting here for hours.

Pain swirled around her midsection, twisting her stomach into knots, but she was paralyzed, unable to tear her eyes from the little hole in the wall.

So that was it then. She had retracted back into the lies, and she didn't know what that meant for her now. Would they keep her here anyway? Would this room forever be her cell? Or would the police connect her to all the deaths she'd mentioned, and would she trade one cell for another?

Could she just go home? And what would await her there now that her parents thought that she had some kind of three letter acronym?

She pulled one knee up to her chest, letting her other leg hang off the bed.

She was afraid to know the answers. She wished to god she could take back the last few months of her life, so she could do everything different. She wished to god Merrick had never found on her on the steps of Hemery High, that she could just be a different person, someone who hadn't jumped through the fire, who wasn't grieving, who hadn't lost it all to a cause she hadn't chosen.

She ran her fingers through her hair, knee still tight to her chest. It felt dirty and unkempt.

Maybe she'd just take a shower.

God, she missed her own shampoo. And her own everything.

She let her leg slip down to the floor and began to push herself from the bed, smoothing hair behind her ear. She could shower. She could do that much at least.

A soft rap on the door drew her attention, and she looked over to see Stone, still clad in white lab coat and sympathetic smile.

"Hey, Buffy," he said.

She said nothing, staring at him warily.

"You have a visitor." Her eyes flicked past him automatically, but there was no one there. "Your mom's here to see you."

"Just her?" she asked. It had been just her or her dad whenever they had visited, never together, though she didn't know why.

"Just her," he confirmed, nodding.

She shifted, "You call her?"

"No, she was already on her way."

"But you spoke?" she guessed.

"Yes," he nodded again. "I'll go with you to the visiting area."

She wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, that she could walk alone, but she said nothing, following him silently from the room back into the hallway. They didn't talk on their way across the facility, ignoring the few people they encountered in the walkways, and when they arrived outside the door he stopped. "I'll be in my office," he said.

She nodded mutely, then waited for him to open the door. When he did, she walked inside.

Her mother was seated on an uncomfortable chair pulled to the center of the room. There were a few couches in here, but Joyce always took one of the plastic chairs whenever she had come, leaving an empty one across from her. "Buffy," she said when she entered, rising.

"Mom," she greeted stiffly, standing just where the door had deposited her.

Her mother hugged her briefly, then took her hand. She allowed herself to be led to one of the chairs, and she took her seat silently. Joyce still had her hand.

They studied each other for a long moment. Her mother seemed to have aged ten years in the last two weeks, and she was smiling sadly at her. Buffy didn't see grief in her eyes like she saw in her father's, and for that much she was grateful.

"Dr. Stone said you finally opened up today," Joyce opened the floor, squeezing her hand. "I know you don't want to talk to me about what happened, but I'm so glad that you spoke to someone about it."

Buffy said nothing. She'd lied; this was all a lie. Why couldn't she see it?

"I'm so proud of you," her mother continued. "I've never been more proud of you. You've been so brave."

"Yeah, brave," she repeated, looking down.

There was a pause, and suddenly she was being hugged again, more tightly this time. Joyce was crying. "Oh, Buffy, I'm just so proud of you. Richard—Dr. Stone—he said you can go home in a few days. They just want to keep you a little longer for observation. You can come home now, sweetheart. We've missed you so much."

The reality of what she was saying trickled through the numbness as she felt her mother crushing her against her. Home. She was going home.

_Home._

A fresh wave of pain slammed into her, and she linked her arms behind her mother's back, hugging her too, inhaling her mother's shampoo and laundry detergent and all the things that were so distinctly her.

She was going to go home. She was going to get out of here. She wasn't going to be trapped here for the rest of her life, and she wasn't going to be handed back to the police. She would be free again.

"Oh, Buffy," Joyce was repeating, sobbing now into her shoulder. "I've missed you so much, honey."

"I've missed you too, Mom," she said quietly, her own voice muffled and shaky. And, god, she had.

They were like that for a long time, her mother kneeling on the floor, gripping her tightly as she cried, and Buffy breathing quietly into chest. She didn't know how to process this, but she could feel all the fear and the pain of the last few months dissolve a little as her mother held her. This was what she'd been seeking all those nights ago. Here, she wasn't trapped in a mental facility, caught between her destiny and the lies to hide it. Here, no one had died and no one ever would. There were no such things as monsters, and the world made sense. She was safe, and she was loved.

Then her mother pulled away and looked at her with bloodshot eyes. She was smiling as if she'd just gotten her back from the dead, as if her one desperate prayer had finally been answered.

"I'll never leave you again, Buffy," she said, squeezing her hand in both of hers. "Please, forgive me."

The pleading in her voice felt like a blade to her heart. "I'm the one who's sorry, Mom," Buffy said, blinking back the stinging in her eyes. "I never meant..."

"Shh," she said, squeezing her hand again. "It's alright. You have nothing to be sorry for. You'll be out soon, I promise. I'm just so sorry, Buffy."

Her voice seemed to fail her. She didn't know what to say.

Joyce sniffed and almost laughed a little, "Let's just hug again, please."

She smiled, tears misting her vision. "Okay, Mom."

This time she met her on the floor, and they held each other. For just this moment, the night would never come, and it didn't matter that she was only a girl. For this moment, she wasn't the Slayer, and she didn't have to be. She was safe, and she was going home.


	21. Void

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 1991  
><em>_Setting: pre-Pilot_

It had taken Buffy less than ten minutes to gather up and pack away her things into the duffel her mother had given her. Now she was leaning against her emptied cabinet, staring blankly at the bag on the bed she'd come to think of as her own.

So this was it. She'd lost two weeks of her life to this place, and after everything that had happened she was just going to walk away. She'd been assured this chapter of her life would never reach her personal records, and that as far as the world was concerned she'd never even been here. It was all over, and she was free to go.

She wet dry lips.

How could it be this simple? They'd locked her up and caged her in to keep her safe from both herself and the world, and now she was getting the go-ahead to return to life amongst the sane. It was all so neat and tidy, as if Stone had somehow managed to tighten the loose screws in her head just by making her talk to him. It was all so ridiculous.

Buffy exhaled, pressing her fingers into her forehead.

She didn't know what awaited her now. She was getting out, sure, but she wasn't any less expelled from Hemery. Where was she going to go? And if she was no longer going to be the Slayer, what would she do? How could she go back to being a normal teenage girl after everything she'd seen? After everything she'd lost?

Then again, she mused as she looked around her room, how could she resume life as the Slayer? It had brought her nothing but grief, and if she continued down that path it could only lead back to here or to a premature death. She wasn't sure she had the strength to take that kind of risk anymore.

Sighing, she got off the cabinet, then grabbed her bag. She'd had more than enough time to think lately, and right now it was time to go. Taking one last look around the room, she threw the duffel over her shoulder and walked out.

The hallway was deserted as she made her way down it, and eventually she reached the door she'd only gone through once before—on the night she'd first arrived. She stared at it for a beat, remembering the hospital and the police precinct and the alley where Tisha had died, reliving the terror and the hurt at being abandoned here. She was leaving, and it was over. It would have to be. She wasn't going to do this again.

Shaking her head, she rapped her knuckles against the door. It was opened almost immediately by Stone, who looked at her with those kind, grandfather-y eyes she hated so much. "Ready to go, Buffy?" he asked, voice as gentle as his gaze.

"Yeah," she nodded, looking past him. Her mother had been seated alone on one of the waiting room chairs, but she'd risen when Buffy had entered.

"Come on, honey," she said, walking over and taking her hand.

"Goodbye, Buffy, Joyce," Stone said, "and good luck."

They gave their own goodbyes, and then they were walking outside. It was a cloudy late November day, and all the trees were bare. The air felt cool and clear after the stuffy heat of the clinic, and Buffy paused for a moment to breathe. The knowledge of her newfound freedom had lifted a heavy weight from her soul, and even though it was a cloudy day, the world and all its colors seemed just a bit brighter. She could even hear a few birds chirping.

"What a beautiful morning," she said, and it felt true even though it wasn't entirely.

"Yeah," Joyce said. She didn't smile, and she started off in the direction of her car without her. At some point she'd dropped her hand.

Buffy watched her, eyebrows dipping. Already she could feel her spirits dimming. Something was up with her mother, and whatever it was, it wasn't of the good. Exhaling, she trotted after her, studying her as they opened the car doors and slipped inside.

As she started the car, it occurred to her that her mother hadn't smiled much at all today, and her silence was heavy. She had a sinking feeling she knew the reason why: there was a void in the car where her dad should've been. In fact, there'd been a void where he should've been these past two weeks. Whenever her parents had visited, they'd done it separately. She still hadn't asked why, but today of all days he should have been here, and in that moment she knew something was horribly wrong.

Suddenly, the world seemed grey and dark again, and her stomach was tightening into a knot.

"Mom?" she forced the word out as they backed from the parking lot and headed for the street.

"Yes, Buffy?" Joyce asked, glancing at her.

She swallowed. Her mouth was dry. "Did something happen to Dad?"

"What?" she repeated. "No. No, he's fine."

Her foot was already in the door, and she knew that that wasn't the end of the sentence. "So why didn't he come? I haven't seen him in like five days."

"You'd have to ask him, Buffy," her tone was flat, almost bitter—so unlike her mother.

There was real fear in her gut now. "Did something happen between you two?"

She opened her mouth, but whatever she was going to say died on her lips. After a long pause, she finally said, "It's complicated, honey."

"Simplify it," her voice was hard.

Another pause, longer this time. Finally, "We had a fight. Several fights, actually."

This was nothing new in the Summers home, but she knew this time it was different. Otherwise he would've been here. Otherwise she would've seen him more in her time at the clinic.

"About me?" she guessed.

Joyce glanced at her again, then looked away. "About a lot of things."

"But I was one of them?"

She avoided her eyes.

She felt sick as a new, terrible thought entered her mind. "Oh, god," she breathed. "You're getting divorced, aren't you?"

There was a long silence. As she had been so often lately, her mother seemed close to tears. Just a few months ago, Buffy had never seen her cry, and it was with a sharp stab of guilt that she realized that that had changed because of her. It was all her fault, and there was nothing she could do to fix it.

"When did this happen?" she asked.

She inhaled, "That, uh, the night we, uh...when we admitted you."

The sickness was quickly becoming nausea. So it had been her. "That's why...why he hasn't been coming with you." She stared at the dashboard, not really seeing it. Oh, jesus. Oh, god.

"Yeah."

Any happiness she'd felt on leaving New Horizons was gone, and once again she could feel her world tunneling in and collapsing around her. "So he's not...home anymore?"

"No."

She was still staring at the dash. "So where is he?"

"A motel."

"Is it nice?" she didn't know why she asked that.

"I don't know. I haven't seen it."

"You haven't seen it," she repeated. The reality of the situation seemed to be sinking in. Her parents were getting divorced. They were already separated, and now they would be forever.

"No." It hadn't been a question, but she'd answered anyway.

Her dad wasn't going to be coming home anymore. It would just be her and Mom and Dawn. She wondered when she would see him again. She wondered why he hadn't even bothered to come today.

"Are you, uh...you're still talking though?" she asked.

Joyce sniffed, then cleared her throat. "Yeah, honey, we are."

She latched onto that, looking at her half-desperately. "So, that's good, right? I mean, talking is good. You could still make up."

Again she avoided her eyes. "Maybe, sweetheart."

Said to assuage, not to assure. Her mother didn't believe it, and consequently neither did Buffy. "Dawn knows?" she asked, hope having left her voice as quickly as it'd come.

"Yeah." Her tone was sad.

She looked back at the dash. Her sister was only ten, too young to really understand what was going on. She wondered what they'd told her, and she wondered where she was. Did she even know where Buffy had been all this time? She remembered her mother telling her they'd said she'd gone away to some kind of camp thing, and she wondered if the story had changed. She hoped to god it hadn't.

"Where is Dawn?" she asked.

"At the house."

"Alone?"

"No, Penny's staying with her."

"Oh." Penny was their neighbor. "Dad couldn't take her?"

"No."

She wanted to know why, but at the same time she didn't. She didn't know what she wanted. Maybe just to have the last several months of her life back, so she could do it all again. Her world was falling apart, and she couldn't seem to stop it. She just wanted a do-over.

"Is it..." her voice trailed off as she searched for the words, "you know, official?"

Her eyes were still on the road, "What?"

"The divorce. You know, have you signed papers and everything?"

There was a pause. "Not yet."

She cleared her throat. "When?"

"I don't know yet, Buffy."

"Soon though?" she didn't know why she was asking all these questions.

"I really don't know, sweetheart."

"Who's taking us?"

Finally she glanced over at her, but Buffy was still staring at the dash. "I think, uh...I think I am."

"You haven't discussed it?"

"We've discussed it. Right now, you're both going to stay with me."

Her entire body felt numb. "He doesn't want us?"

"Honey, no," she took her hand and squeezed it, "Don't think that, not for a second. Your father loves you very much."

"Then why isn't he here? Why isn't he with Dawn?" Why was she pursuing this?

"It's just complicated, sweetie," she squeezed her hand again. "Look at me, please."

She did. Her mouth was paper dry.

Joyce glanced between her and the road, "This is a difficult situation, for all of us, you have to know that. He couldn't come today, but it doesn't mean he doesn't want you. You are so loved, Buffy, by both of us. You know that, right?"

She said nothing, her gaze slipping downward, to some random point in space.

Her mother squeezed her hand again. "Right, Buffy?"

"Right," she said finally, voice throaty. Her mouth was so dry.

"He said he'll be by tomorrow."

"To see us or to pick up his things?" she asked dully.

"To see you, Buffy. He's missed you too, as much as I have."

"Yeah," she murmured, looking out the window. There was nothing beautiful about the day anymore. She couldn't see the sky for the clouds.

Silence spread between them as they rolled down the streets, inching ever closer to their house. There was nothing comfortable about it, and the air seemed heavy with her mother's sadness. She felt like she couldn't breathe, but she was too paralyzed to crack her window.

"I'm so sorry, Buffy," her mother said suddenly, glancing over at her again.

"For what?" she asked, unable to look at her.

"For...just everything."

"Yeah," she exhaled, leaning her head against the cool glass. "So am I."

And then it was silent again. It was silent the rest of the way home.


	22. Too Little, Too Late

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 2123  
><em>_Setting: pre-Pilot_

The Christmas season had reached the City of Angels during Buffy's time in the clinic. Many of the buildings around neighborhoods and downtown were now sporting colored lights and some degree of holiday cheer in the form of blow-up Santa Clauses and wire mesh reindeer, and tree lots had sprouted up in parking lots and storefronts. While the city would never see snow, it was awash with tinsel and cardboard snowflakes, which was almost just as good in a county that never saw winter.

Buffy was staring up at one such snowflake as "Jingle Bell Rock" blasted from a nearby speaker. It was glittering blue and silver as it turned, turned, turned, around and around, ever so slowly but never stopping. She'd been staring at it for a long time, though she wasn't sure how long. The spinning was hypnotic, and between the music and the din she had quickly zoned out.

It'd been almost two weeks since her release from New Horizons, four since her parents had separated. Dawn had finally stopped crying, and things were being packed into boxes and sent to the apartment her dad had just started renting. There was no legal battle in court, and it had been quietly decided that Buffy and Dawn were to remain with their mother. Hank had renounced custody. Buffy had only seen him a handful of times since the day after she'd come home, and she wasn't sure how she felt about that. She wasn't even sure if she really wanted to see him again any time soon.

Joyce had told her her first night back that she had given up smoking, that she'd flushed her cigarettes and was using one of those patch things, but last night Buffy had found her out on the deck staring at a pack of unopened Morleys. This last month had aged her mother, deadened her eyes and greyed her hair, and at that moment she'd seen her less as a parent and more as a person. The both of them were running on steam and air, and they needed a break. Even though she'd returned to her own personal grooming supplies, Buffy still felt ragtag, and she hadn't had a proper haircut in who knew how long, so she'd suggested a trip to the mall to get their nails and hair done and to pick up something new and pretty and overpriced. Her mother had agreed.

Buffy finally looked away from the snowflake to study her fingers. They were clean, soft, and pretty after an hour of much needed attention, and her hair was much shorter now, as she'd had them take off several inches and give her bangs. She'd felt like a different person as she'd watched them sweep her hair from the floor, but a few minutes after she'd left her mother to the women's department at Bergdorf's she'd found her mood dimming again. Somehow she'd ended up in this gift store, where she'd picked up something for Dawn.

She sighed, glancing at the panda in her lap and its little bead eyes.

This was the best she could seem to do.

The first plaintive notes of "Silent Night" broke through her introspection, and, groaning, she stood up. She may be zoning, but if she had to listen to that song again she was going to become the menace to society the staff of New Horizons and her former principal believed she was.

Panda in hand, she walked out into the congested walkway of the mall, where "Winter Wonderland" was echoing off the high, white walls. She allowed herself to be subsumed into the crowd as she headed in the general direction of the food court. For once in her life, she didn't really feel like shopping, though at some point she had every intention of revisiting the extremely sexy shop display of leather coats they'd passed on their way to the salon. Right now she was hungry and she wanted to hit up the Mexican counter for something dripping with cheese and sour cream. If nothing else, it could probably help buoy her flagging spirits.

She was just passing the first set of tables in the food court when she felt a hand on her sleeve. Her elbow came up automatically, though it hit nothing as she turned, slipping automatically into a battle stance despite how long it'd been since she'd really fought something.

"Buffy Summers?"

She looked at the figure before her warily, her arms still up, muscles tense. She realized she was still holding Dawn's panda. "Who wants to know?" she asked.

"I'm Rebecca Sofer," her accent was English. "I've been sent to find you."

She paused as her stomach seemed to drop a floor. Could it be...? "By who?" she asked.

"The Watcher's Council." Buffy's heart skipped a beat. "I've been sent to be your new Watcher."

She stared at her as a hundred people seemed to stream past them in all directions, at a loss for words. It was what she'd been expecting her to say, but to hear the words...

"Buffy," Sofer leaned in closer, "let's move somewhere more private?"

She nodded and allowed herself to be steered to the side of the nearest food court building, under the shade of a towering fake plant. Then she stood there, staring at her.

Sofer was dressed primly in a business suit under her black trench coat, her hair situated into a perfect bun on the back of her head. She was maybe fifty, and she seemed to be studying her in much the same way she was studying her.

"My new Watcher?" she managed finally.

She nodded, "Yes."

"What the hell took you so long?" the words were out before she could stop them, and they were angry.

Sofer seemed taken aback by her outburst, but she replied evenly, "It was a long time before we realized something was wrong here. The Devon Coven has many virtues, but speed is not one of them."

"Merrick has been dead almost two months," she said, voice steel.

She grimaced. "I apologize, Buffy."

She stared at her, blood pressure spiking, "That's it?" she asked, not bothering to monitor her decibel levels. "That's all you have to say? You _apologize?_"

"There was nothing I could do about the situation. As soon as we realized what happened, we set about trying to find you."

"It's been _two months_," she fought to keep her voice steady. "You left me alone for two months. Do you even know what's happened to me?"

She was studying her still, face unreadable. "No."

"I'll tell you. They locked me away. I spent two weeks in an institution for the insane. Where the hell were you then? Where were you when Lothos and about a hundred of his pals attacked the gym during a school dance? Where were you when my best friend—the only friend I had left—was murdered by a couple vampires in an alley? You _apologize, _Sofer? That's all you have to say to me?" the words spilled out of her in a torrent. All the pain and the anger she'd been repressing these last months was bubbling to the surface, and she hadn't even realized how angry she was until this moment. "Screw your apologies, Sofer, and screw the Council. Go find yourself another savior. I've had enough of your shit."

She made to turn, but Sofer grabbed her arm and physically placed herself between her and the way out. "Hold on, Buffy."

"No," she made to move past her, but was blocked again. "Get out of my way," she growled.

"No," Sofer said, voice hard. If there was sympathy in her eyes it was clouded by her own anger. "You don't get that option, Buffy."

"Oh, yes I do," she said.

"You don't," she'd raised her own voice now. "You are the Slayer. You are the Chosen One. No one knows why the universe works the way it does, but you are destined to protect and defend the world from the forces of darkness. You don't get the luxury of a choice."

She glared at her, arms crossed over her chest, panda tucked under her elbow. "Save it," she said, "I've heard the speech."

"Then you know what's at stake here." She lowered her voice, and her expression seemed to soften, "I'm sorry for everything that has happened to you, I am, but the world is bigger than you, bigger than us, and you have to understand your part in this."

She wanted to hit her, so badly her muscles ached. "I know what my part is," she said, "and I'm making the decision. I just got my life back, and I'm not ready to die for somebody else's crusade."

"This _is _your crusade, Buffy. Ours. "

"No, it's not." She couldn't get past her, so she backed away. "I didn't choose any of this. Not the fear, not the loss, not the guilt. You chose for me. You took everything from me. What's left? Will it never be enough until I've died for you?"

Sofer opened her mouth, but no words came out. She didn't seem to know what to say.

Buffy did, "You Watchers sit over there in England behind your books and your tea and your rules and your prophecies, but I'm more than some player in some old book. I'm a girl. I'm a person, with feelings and a family and a life, not just some weapon you can use until I break. You weren't here for me when I needed you most, and if you hadn't noticed I took care of Lothos fine without your help. Get back on your plane and go back to England. I'm done being your tool. You can tell the whole Council that." She inhaled, "Now, I'm only going to say this one more time, and then I'm going to get angry: get out of my way, Sofer."

Sofer stared at her, apparently too stunned for words. For a moment, she thought she was going to argue with her, to try to stop her again, and she was starting to almost hope she would when she finally stood aside.

"Thank you," she said stiffly, then began walking past her.

"Buffy..." Sofer said quietly, and she stopped. "I am sorry, Buffy."

"Too little, too late," she replied coldly, then walked back into the crowd. She didn't look back as she headed for a thick knot of people surrounding some guy doing a demonstration with a row of blenders, knowing her slight build and height would allow her to effectively disappear into the mass. Already she was going over the conversation in her head.

The Council had approached her, and she had turned them down. She'd made the decision to do that back within the peach-colored walls of New Horizons, but to have actually done it...Had she made a terrible mistake today? What would the Council do now that they knew the Chosen One had renounced her duties? Could they do anything to her?

She paused beside a stand of watches and jewelry, remembering that first encounter she'd had with Merrick on the front steps of Hemery. He'd cast some kind of spell on her. Did the Council have that kind of power? Could they force her to fight?

She could taste fear, hot and bitter in her throat. She was overreacting.

She hoped.

The watch seller was trying to make eye-contact with her, and she quickly started to move again, heading for the department she'd left her mother in.

What now? She'd just told the Council that she wasn't going to be the Slayer anymore, that she was done. But was she? Could she return to life as a normal girl? What if she couldn't? She'd just severed ties with her only connection to the world of vampires and demons. If she realized she couldn't detach, couldn't give up the gig, how long could she survive without a Watcher, and how would she know what to do?

Jesus, what had she done?

She was running now, slipping between people with the speed and the grace being the Slayer afforded her. She wanted to get back to her mother. She wanted to get out of here. She wanted to escape the questions and the fear.

What had she done?

Who did she even want to be? A girl or the Slayer?

And did she truly have a choice?


	23. Moving On

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 1881  
><em>_Setting: pre-Pilot_

It was Christmas Eve in the Summers home. You could tell because of the tree and the lights strung along the front of the house and the tinsel in the kitchen and the fact that one half of the family wasn't talking to the other. Tension had been high since the moment Hank had arrived at the house, and conversation was light and superficial, punctuated mostly by the occasional glare from mother and older daughter. The glaring had quickly replaced conversation, at which point the TV had come on.

Since the split Buffy had felt a certain closeness with her mother that hadn't been there before. It had a different quality to it—like the family was in the midst of battle and she was carrying her mother's flag. When Joyce had ducked out into the kitchen to work on her ham and scalloped potatoes and sweet potatoes and some kind of green bean thing she had followed her. She sensed her mother was making all this food to avoid sitting in the family room with Hank, and for that reason she had refused Buffy's help. So Buffy just sat there, Coke in hand as she watched her mother methodically skin, chop, shred, and pile, while _Grinch_ played in the other room. Occasionally Joyce would sip from her wine glass, though she'd somehow managed to stay on the same one all this time.

"Buffy," Joyce said, taking one such sip now. She was looking down at the counter.

"Yeah, Mom?" Buffy said.

"I was going to wait to tell you, you know, until after the holidays, but..."

"But what?" she asked, her already black mood darkening. Whatever her mother wanted to tell her, she sensed it couldn't be good.

"I've, uh, decided we're going to move."

She felt like she'd been hit with a brick. "What?" she said.

"I can't really afford to live here anymore with just my income."

"In LA?" she asked, not entirely comprehending.

"Yes," she exhaled. "I'm sorry, Buffy, but I've been looking for the right time to tell you for a long time now."

"_Pooh-pooh to the Whos!" Grinch was grinchishly humming. "They're finding out now that no Christmas is coming! They're just waking up! I know just what they'll do!"_

"Where?" she asked finally, voice strangled.

"To, uh...it's called Sunnydale."

"Sunnydale?" she repeated blankly. "We're moving to a place called Sunnydale?"

"It's only about two hours from here, still on the coast."

"Sunnydale?" she said again.

"It's really very nice. Last weekend when your dad took you I went up there to look at houses. The school there has already accepted your papers."

"The school," she repeated. "You already applied me?"

"I've..." her voice trailed off, and she laughed a little, but it was humorless, "I already bought a house, Buffy."

"A house?" They were moving away from the home she'd grown up in. They were leaving LA. They were leaving everything she'd ever known behind.

"Yes." She picked up her wine glass, seemed to reconsider, then set it down again. She ripped off some foil to cover her potato thing. They were au gratin or scalloped or something. Was there a difference?

She shook her head, then rubbed her eyes with her fingers. "Does Dad know?"

"Yes." The foil crinkled loudly as she smoothed it down.

"Dawn?"

Pause. "Not yet."

She looked up at her again, dropping her hands, "When are you going to tell her?"

"Tomorrow, I think. Maybe the day after."

She exhaled, "How soon?"

"We'll be moved in by the second." She opened the oven door, then shoved in the glass dish. "Your father's going to sell the house, give half the money to me." She shoved in another, the one with the sweet potatoes, then shut the door.

Nine days. "He's staying here?"

"In LA, yes."

They were moving two hours away from her father. As angry as she'd been at him lately, she'd still been nursing the secret hope that her parents would make up, that he would sell his crappy apartment and move back into their house. And now...soon this house wasn't even going to be their house anymore, and they would be two hours away, in some place called Sunnydale.

It was done. It was final.

Her parents were divorced. Her life in LA was effectively over. "Have you two signed papers yet?" she asked, staring at a black mark in the laminate.

She paused, "Buffy..."

"Have you?" she cut in. "You stopped wearing the ring like a month ago." Or longer. She didn't know if it'd been off while she was in the clinic. It hadn't occurred to her then to look.

Joyce glanced at her, then looked down as she ran a rag over the countertop. "We're signing this weekend."

"And that'll be it?" she asked.

"Yeah," she pulled the trash out from under the sink and scooted whatever the rag had collected into it.

_Every Who down in Whoville, the tall and the small, was singing—without any presents at all! He hadn't stopped Christmas from coming! It came! Somehow or other, it came just the same._

"I think I've run out of things to do," Joyce said, sounding resigned.

Buffy glanced at the wall. On the other side of it was the TV, Dawn, and her father. She looked back at her mother. "We could make something else," she said hopefully.

"By 'we' you mean 'me'?"

She leaned back in her chair, "Hey, I did offer to help."

She sighed, "Yes, I guess you did."

"So how about it? Sure there's something left in the fridge that could be turned into something laborious and time consuming."

A small smile, "Tempting, but we already made enough to feed a small army and their horses."

"Armies have dogs too, right? We could feed them as well."

She shook her head and leaned against the counter, wine glass in hand. "We can't avoid him forever, Buffy."

"Maybe not forever, but for awhile."

"It has been awhile. Come on." She walked over to her and squeezed her shoulder. "You shouldn't shut out your father. I'm divorcing him, not you, and he's not your enemy."

She sighed but rose obediently, and together they walked into the living room.

Dawn was seated on the floor surrounded by discarded colored pencils and different piles of paper, a few of which had been crumpled into balls. Her bear was seated beside her, staring mournfully at a table leg as his master scribbled away.

Joyce and Hank made brief eye contact before she settled on the couch farthest from him. He waved at Buffy, and she waved back before taking her seat next to her mother and directing her eyes at the television. It was the part where the Grinch was trying to stop the sleigh from falling off the cliff, and his heart was about to increase three times in size. She looked away when he realized the true meaning of Christmas and lifted the sleigh above his head. A year ago she'd enjoyed watching this movie with her family, but with everything that had happened lately, she really just wanted to escape to her room and her soft, clean sheets. The sappy moral-of-the-story moment wasn't doing it for her tonight, and frankly there was nothing Christmas-y about her spirits. She'd had enough of the holiday season.

She sighed, wishing she'd remembered to bring her Coke in from the other room, since she didn't really feel like getting up.

Her sister caught her drifting attention as she picked up the piece of paper she'd been working on and studied it for a beat. Then she walked over to the couch, where she flopped down next to Joyce and dropped the paper in her lap.

"What's this, honey?" Joyce asked, lifting her offering.

"Just something I drew," Dawn said, sliding her feet up onto the couch. "You like it?"

She smiled, "It's very good."

She looked down, "Not really."

Joyce smoothed a long section of dark hair behind her ear, then looked over at Buffy. "Don't you think this is good?"

Buffy took the proffered paper. It was Santa in his sleigh with a bunch of reindeer stopped on top of a roof, with a big yellow moon on the side. To be honest, it wasn't very good, but then again Dawn was ten and even though Buffy had a good five years on her, she probably couldn't have made anything better. "I love it," she lied, though her smile was genuine.

Dawn smiled shyly.

Joyce smoothed her hair again, then took the paper from Buffy and gave it back to Dawn. "Go show this to your father, honey," she said quietly, nodding toward him.

Her sister's eyes flew from Joyce to Hank, then back again. She looked almost nervous. "Okay," she said, then slid off the couch to walk over to her father.

"Hey," Hank said when he reached her, then patted the seat beside him. "Let me see, huh? What's this?"

"A picture," Dawn said.

Buffy watched as they talked. She didn't know how much Dawn really understood of the situation. She wasn't too young to comprehend it all, but to some degree she seemed caught as her eight year-old self. She didn't want to grow up, even in a situation where she needed to, at least just a little.

She felt sorry for her. Life had forced Buffy to rapidly grow up these last months, her carefree youth crushed rather effectively by the weight of her fate. Maybe her sister shouldn't have to grow up so fast. Maybe it was alright for her to remain the kid.

She sighed. She didn't know if that would be possible, what with the move. She looked around the living room, thinking about all the memories it contained, other Christmases, other holidays, the first time she'd brought a date home, movies she'd watched with her friends on the floor in front of the TV, Kosseff and that cop coming in from the kitchen to confront her. So much good and so much bad, all contained within this house, and she was going to have to leave it, just as she'd had to leave so much lately.

Maybe it would be good to have a fresh start, for her and for the rest of her family. They could have a clean slate. She was going to be able to start over in a town where no one knew her, where she wasn't going to be the Slayer. She would get to be a girl again. She wouldn't have to bring anymore grief into her family, because god knew there had been enough of that lately.

Exhaling, she leaned into her mother, who began stroking her hair.

She only had to get through the holidays. Then she would move on, start a new life in Sunnydale—wherever the hell that was.


	24. Mirror

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 2478  
><em>_Setting: Welcome to the Hellmouth_

_A/N: And so we reach s1. A couple notes before we get started: the basic format of this fic isn't changing. It's still going to be vignettes, the only difference being they're going to have an episodic focus now. This is **NOT** a rewrite of the series to incorporate Dawn (though Dawn does exist, I'm not doing "how would this ep have been different with Dawn?"). Sometimes her existence will make a difference, sometimes it won't. Further, I made the decision to take some creative license with the dates for s1, and I'm starting in January for a few logistical and plot-related reasons. This is the only part of canon I'm really fudging with, and I'm not rearranging episode order, but PM or drop a comment if you want my justification, though some of it may be clear without it.  
><em>_Again, the format from here on out is inspired by BeshterAngelus' X-Files "Seasons" fics. Go check those out if you're a TXF fan.  
><em>_Finally, you don't need to watch the eps to read these as long as you've got a general idea of chronology. But if you're anything like me (prior to this fic, obviously), you may not've done s1 in awhile, so maybe this could be a good excuse to revisit._

The heels of her boots echoed hollowly off the old stone floor as she walked through the abyss. She was carrying a torch, but it didn't seem to illuminate anything, and she could smell blood and must and mildew. The air was moist and cool, and she knew she was underground, though she didn't know where or how she had gotten there. It didn't seem important. In fact, nothing seemed important, and she knew she should be afraid, but she wasn't.

Her boot hit something hard and concrete: brick. She stepped around it, her hand stretched in front of her to feel for a wall that wasn't there. The torch flame was a brilliant blue in her eyes, and even though it was more distraction than help she didn't let it go. If she did, it would burn the whole place away, and her along with it.

She could smell death. She knew she was going the right way.

She lifted the torch high above her head, and it sank away into the darkness. There was something she had to do, but she couldn't remember what it was. She wished she could go, turn tail and run, but she didn't. It was too late to stop anyway.

Water was running somewhere, and she could see blood pooling at a dip in the floor even though there wasn't any light. She stretched her torch toward it, hoping it would help her to see better, but it had gone out. She was left standing there in the darkness, useless stick in hand as she stared into the pool. There was something fascinating about it, and she couldn't seem to look away as it bubbled and seethed. The blood was coming from some point in the ceiling, running down in a thin, heavy stream. Finally, she walked toward it, her torch held out like a staff. The smell of death here was heady, suffocating, and she was inexorably drawn to it. The Slayer was death—_she_ was death—and that was why she was here.

She knew that in an instant, and in that instant light flooded the room, throwing everything into sharp relief. A thousand flickering candles had come alive along the walls and on long, wrought iron candelabras. She held out her staff warily.

There was a figure on a throne. He was asleep, backlit by the ruins of what looked like a church, and he was grotesque, his face twisted like a gargoyle's. Suddenly she was afraid, but she was frozen there, her makeshift staff useless in her stiff fingers. She wanted to run, hard and fast, she _needed_ to, but she couldn't move, even as her heartbeat ratcheted up in tempo.

The figure woke, and he turned his head to look at her, a smile twitching at his reddened mouth. She could see sharp, pointed teeth under it. He was a monster.

"Slayer," he said, his grin broadening into something wide and predatory.

Her heart was in her throat, but she couldn't seem to do anything but watch as he rose and walked to her. He smelled so powerfully of blood and death that the air seemed to compress around him, and she couldn't breathe, and her lungs and her heart screamed as he reached for her. She couldn't move, couldn't run. He would touch her and she would die...

Buffy jolted awake.

It was morning, and sunlight was slipping through the blinds over her windows. For a moment, she couldn't remember where she was and why her bedroom looked so wrong, but her confusion faded quickly as she remembered. She was in Sunnydale, in her new bedroom with its ugly, green-striped wallpaper.

"Buffy?" a voice from faraway called.

"I'm up, Mom," she replied, sitting up.

Her mother's reply was far too chirpy, "Don't want to be late for your first day!"

"No," she sighed. "Wouldn't want that."

Rubbing her face with her hands, she slipped to the edge of her bed, then paused. Her dream was coming back to her, and when she closed her eyes she saw the monster and the ruined church. She could smell the mildew and the blood and the death as if she was there, and she shook her head, reopening her eyes.

These last few days she'd been getting dreams again. They'd started sometime around New Year's, maybe a little before, none particularly cogent, but all slightly distressing. She hadn't had dreams with that kind of surround sound in nearly three months. Since the night she'd found Merrick dead on the warehouse floor.

"Cereal's on the table!" Joyce called from somewhere. "Getting ready?"

"Yeah, yeah," she murmured, sliding the rest of the way off the bed to head for the bathroom and the shower.

It was their second day in Sunnydale. She'd spent the first night downstairs in their bare living room, in a sleeping bag she was fairly certain had never been used before her mother had produced it from some box. She'd been happy when her bed had arrived yesterday along with the rest of the furniture, and had gratefully fallen into it last night after a long day of shifting furniture and boxes around and unpacking the kitchen. She found she was loathe to be separated from it, even as she stripped and turned the shower knob. The last few days had been exhausting, and while her mother had told her she was starting the semester only two days late, she was still dealing with a mid-year transfer, and she didn't know if she had the energy to be playing catch up before she'd even reached the starting line.

On the other hand, she thought as hot water hit her skin, she was making a new beginning for herself, and no time was too soon to start. She was eager to leave her old life behind, to forget it as quickly as possible.

She turned the water hotter, until it was almost scalding.

And that would be easy in a town like Sunnydale. From what little she'd seen of it, there seemed to be nothing here. It was a far cry from downtown LA, and while the suburbs here weren't too far removed from the one she'd grown up in, _sans_ the graffiti, there was something about knowing that the nearest sprawling city was two hours away that made her feel like she was in some kind of small town America. With any luck, she would make herself a small circle of friends, possibly even a large circle of friends. She would get back into date mode, go to school dances, maybe even try out for the cheerleading squad. She would take back her life, forget she was ever the Slayer, let go of all the people she'd killed and watched die. She would never step foot in another cemetery, and never again would she fear for her life in some back alley. It was all behind her now.

Just as soon as the dreams went away.

She shut off the water, then reached for a towel.

Despite herself, she reflected on the figure from her dream. This was at least the third time she'd seen him, and while her head said vampire, her heart said something worse. She didn't know who he was, but she knew deep in some corner of her soul that he was as real as anything, and she knew that she was afraid of him. He had some kind of pull on her, and she didn't know where he was, but she felt that he knew her too, in the same way that she did.

She wondered if he was in Cleveland, if he was the evil that Merrick had been trying to take her to, that Sofer had been trying to drag her back to. Would she turn on the television one day to find that northern Ohio had been reduced to a scorch mark on the map? That the whole state had fallen into a pit that was rapidly expanding outwards?

She shook her head.

Enough. She was done. She'd told the Council she was done, that she'd washed her hands of it. The fate of the world was no longer on her shoulders, and she was sure they'd found a new savior even as she stood there thinking about it on her new bathroom tile.

It was ridiculous that they'd ever called on her to begin with. She looked at herself in the mirror, at her dripping hair as it clung to her face and her neck. She was a short, slight, blonde girl from LA, still a few weeks away from sixteen. She wasn't the heroine of the movie; she was the one that got killed in the opening sequence. She didn't look the part because she wasn't fit for it. She didn't know why she was the only one who saw that.

She forced her thoughts off that track as she blew her hair dry and returned to her partially unpacked bedroom to search for something to wear. Clothes—this was what she was good at thinking about, or at least she had been up until something like three or four months ago. She had to read through the stack of untouched _Elle_ and _Vogue_ magazines she'd shoved into a box during the move after months of accumulating, and she had to make sure to ask her mother if she'd rerouted the subscription to the new house so she could continue to get them. She was going to go back to being a girl if it killed her.

With that thought in mind, she slipped into what she had found, then returned to the bathroom to do her hair and make-up. When she looked into the mirror after she was done, the girl she saw staring back was cute and confident, maybe even a little perky. It was who she wanted to see. Looking at herself now, she knew she could escape being the Slayer.

Smiling, she grabbed her bag, then went downstairs and walked to the kitchen.

"Smiling?" her mother greeted, looking up from her coffee cup and a small stack of papers on the bar. "What happened, and should I be worried?"

"Ha ha," Buffy replied dryly. "Witness me laughing." She removed the spoon from the bowl that had been left out for her, then reached for the cereal box. "Where's Dawn?" Her sister's absence was conspicuous, thought not entirely unexpected.

"She's asleep in my bed," Joyce set down her coffee, exhaling. "I've decided to hold off her starting school until next week."

"Ah," she took a seat on one of their brand new bar stools, then began pouring cereal.

"Oh, I made you lunch," her mother pointed to a brown bag near the toaster.

Her brows arched, "You made lunch? For me? Should _I _be worried?"

"I believe the word you're looking for is 'thank you,' " it was her turn to be dry.

"Thanks," she said, putting down the box and reaching for the milk. "What're those?" she pointed to the stack of papers.

"Oh, just paperwork and a couple bills," she said. "Bob—I don't know if you remember him—but I promoted him to manage the gallery back in LA. Already starting to wonder if that was a good idea." She shook her head, taking another sip of coffee.

"Ah," she nodded. Shortly after Christmas she'd learned that her mother was in the process of taking over a gallery here in Sunnydale thanks to her connections in LA. Or maybe she was still looking for one to merge with the one she already owned—she was fuzzy on the details.

"Hopefully everything will be settled soon, and I'll be organizing an opening party rather than a move," she continued.

"Yeah." She dumped in the milk, then set the carton down. "I'd like that." Especially if it involved hors d'oeuvres platters and a new dress and the cute rent-a-waiters her mother's parties back in LA always consisted of.

Normalcy. It felt good to feel it again.

"Seriously," Joyce said, studying her. "What's got you in a good mood? Even I'm not in a good mood."

"I dunno," she shrugged, taking a bite of cereal. "I guess maybe the thought of having a new start isn't so bad."

"Finally, something we agree on." She set the paper she'd been holding down and traded it for another. "Oh, don't forget, Buffy, you've got a meeting with Principle Flutie first thing before class to go over your transcripts."

"Okay," she said, taking another bite.

"You're sure you don't want me to go with you?"

"Eh," she waved her hand. "It's just a meeting. I can handle it."

"Alright," she looked back down at her paper.

They didn't say anything else until Buffy had finished off her cereal and was rinsing her bowl in the sink.

"Ready to go?" Joyce asked.

"Yeah," Buffy said, smiling again, though for the first time she felt the slightest twinge of nervousness.

Her mother smiled back, then got up. "I'll meet you in the car."

"And I'll be right there."

She pointed to the bowl, "Don't forget to put that in the dishwasher."

"I won't."

They were smiling almost plastically at each other now, and then her mother left through the dining room. Buffy watched her go, realizing she was probably as nervous as she was after how the previous semester had ended, possibly even more so.

But it wasn't going to be like that again.

She opened the dishwasher, then put her bowl inside.

She had made the decision that it wasn't going to be like that again.

She grabbed her lunch, then shoved it into her bag. As she walked through the dining room, she couldn't shake the twinge of nervousness, and despite herself she stopped in the foyer, as if her feet had suddenly cemented themselves to the carpet.

She saw that face again, the one from her dream. The way he'd looked at her, the way he'd reached for her, the way he'd smiled at her. It was ridiculous: he was halfway across the country, in Cleveland, and she hadn't seen a vampire in months. She was done. She'd said it a thousand times now—she was _done._

And yet...

Exhaling, she turned and ran up the stairs for her bedroom, intent on the trunk she'd shoved into her closet as soon as she'd arrived here. She would bring a stake, just in case. Absolutely nothing was going to happen today, but she wanted it in her bag with her lunch and her calculator and her gum.

Just in case.


	25. Delusion

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 1616  
><em>_Setting: Welcome to the Hellmouth_

_A/N: Sorry for the delay, but April is traditionally a fairly horrid month for ficcing. I'm expecting things won't relax until mid-May, after finals, but I'm going to try for an update at least once or twice a week until then. In case I don't make that goal, please be patient. Short of me being hit by a bus or something, I'm in this series for the long haul, so even if updates slow, they won't be stopping._

_Secondary A/N: One borrowed line._

Oh, no.

Buffy glanced at Willow, who looked as disturbed as she knew she was supposed to feel—and to some degree she was, but for different reasons.

There was a corpse in the locker room.

Please god, no.

"Um," she quickly gathered up her half-eaten lunch and her bag, "I gotta book. I'll see you guys later." She slipped off the bench and half ran away, shoving her lunch back into her bag as she went.

She didn't know where the hell the gym was, but she would find it, just to assure herself it wasn't what she thought it was, because there was no way it had followed her here. She had left it all behind when her mother had made the turn onto the 101. They were in Sunnydale for god's sake.

And yet that Watcher had come here. What had he said his name was? Giles? All the way from England to move to a town where nothing happened?

Yes. He had retired, and he had come for the sun and the surf. That was it.

She saw a door that looked promising and went through it, then followed the hall down.

She didn't know what she was hoping for. That the dead guy had killed himself and somehow made it inside the locker before dying? That a couple jocks had gotten carried away and pummeled some unfortunate nerd to death? She didn't know, but it would be better than the alternative. Hell, she'd take serial killer over the alternative.

Yes, serial killer. She was going to hope for that.

She'd made it to a set of double red doors, and a nearby door card confirmed that they opened to the gym. She tugged on the doorknob, but there was no give. Locked.

She'd try another entrance.

She considered scenarios as she made her way around. It was going to be like something out of _Law & Order. _The dead guy had seen something he shouldn't have, like the killer dumping a body or cleaning off his blood-soaked hands. Maybe it was a black widow, who'd asked him back into the locker rooms for some early morning dalliance and had murdered him instead. Or maybe...maybe...

She rounded a corner and glanced another door. She didn't know, but anything was better than what she was thinking. She just had to see it, to assure herself that everything was normal in Sunnydale, that her paranoia was just that, and nothing further.

Looking around, she tried the door. It was also locked, but this time she didn't have the patience to look for another way. Grabbing it with both hands, she forced the door open, then closed it behind her. Someone would probably notice the slightly broken wall, but that wasn't her problem.

She walked across the gym, intent on the double doors across the way.

All she was going to find was a dead guy, a normal dead guy that the cops could investigate. The killer would be caught, justice would be served, and she wouldn't have to hear about it because she would be a guiltless party, at home eating ice cream out of the carton while watching TV and possibly doing her nails.

Assuming there was a god.

She opened the locker room doors, which weren't locked, then proceeded inside. She only had to turn one corner before she found a body-shaped lump under a heavy, grey blanket, and she walked to it.

Please, let him have been shot or something. No slime, no mutilation, no fang marks.

She didn't give herself a chance to hesitate before she lifted the blanket. Her eyes went immediately to his neck, and within a moment she knew without question that she'd been deluding herself.

"Oh, great," she muttered aloud, rocking backing on her heels.

She was at a loss. It was her first day in a new school, in a new town, and she hadn't even managed to make it through lunch before the dead had begun encroaching on her life again. She was supposed to be starting over. That was all she'd wanted.

She stood, rubbing her face with her hands, then stared down at the body.

As she stood there, a new, terrible thought occurred to her. Was it her? Had it followed her here? The bottom seemed to drop out of her stomach. Had she damned this town by coming here? It seemed like too much of a coincidence, and, after all, it wouldn't be the first time. Lothos had come to LA in search of her, and she still didn't know how many vampires had populated the city prior to her calling. Her final body count in LA was unknown, but she knew of at least three people who would probably still be alive if not for her.

And now it was starting again.

Please, no...

"Shit," she murmured. She could feel paralysis locking up her joints as numbness settled in.

She had given this up. She had told Sofer and the Council itself last month that she was done, that she had relinquished all responsibility. She couldn't be forced to walk this path again.

She stared at the body. Had she killed him? Was this all her fault?

Jesus, please no.

"He's back here."

The sound of voices and footsteps snapped her out of the catatonia she'd rapidly been slipping into, and she felt panic flood her soul as one thought crystallized in her brain: _cops._ Images of November rushed through her senses, and all at once she saw the hospital table and that little interview room at the LAPD, and she saw Kosseff as they told her she needed help. She saw Stone and the peach-colored walls of New Horizons.

Panic seized her.

She couldn't be found here. She was new. No one had any idea who she was. If they found her here, they might somehow connect her to the body, and she could not—she _would_ not—go back to another police precinct for as long as she lived.

She hurriedly covered the body back up, then ran behind the nearest set of lockers. From there she spied a door that was different from the one she'd come in through, and she dashed to it. By some miracle, it was unlocked, and she opened it and slipped outside, then made her way around the corner and up some steps. Then she stopped.

She was standing in front of a racing pool.

She stared at it for a beat, slightly confused at having found it there, but the knowledge that only a single wall separated her from the loss of her freedom motivated her to keep moving, and after skimming the walls she spotted an exit.

She walked to it, putting a stranglehold on her emotions.

What was she supposed to do now? Find her next class and pretend everything was fine? There was still fifteen minutes left to her break, and she felt too jittery to sit. With some work she could relax, but she didn't want to do that. She just wanted this all to end. She wanted to be free of it. Ten minutes ago, she thought she'd been free of it. She'd been back among fellow teenagers who only regarded her as a transfer, some girl from LA. She had started down the path to possibly building a friendship or two. She'd been free.

She cracked the exit door, then glanced around outside to see if the coast was clear. It was, and she slipped out, back into the cool, January sunshine.

And yet she hadn't been, not really. There was a Watcher in the school library, and he'd come here for her. She had never truly escaped anything, and the body in the locker was like some sick sort of consolation prize.

She stopped under the shade of a tree.

She needed to talk to someone about this. It had been three months since she'd been able to discuss this seriously with anyone, since she could open her mouth without fear that she would end up tossed back in the looney bin for it. She'd blown Sofer off, but Giles had installed himself into her new school, and she wanted to know why.

She pushed off the tree, heading for the library.

How much did he know, about her and about Sunnydale? Had he known she was walking into this? Did he know about the body? Did he know what the hell was going on? Was this town already an undead hangout, or had she brought them here?

She had to confront him, she thought as she made her way along the walkway lining the quad. And it had to be now. She had to make him understand that she was finished, done—that she'd meant what she'd said to Sofer all those weeks ago.

Even if he didn't understand, he still needed to know. She wanted him to know how much she hated him, how much she hated all of this, how little she cared for the Council and its rules and its tweed. If she couldn't quit, maybe they could just fire her. If they fired her, it would all go away. Giles and his _Vampyr_ book would go back to England, the Council would give up on her, and she could go back to her life.

Her focus was on a set of doors that weren't too far away now. Just beyond them, down the hall, would be the library. Yes, they could fire her. What the hell did she care? She was retired anyway.

She wondered even as she pushed the handle how much she was deluding herself.


	26. Newfound Companions

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 2598  
><em>_Setting: The Harvest_

Buffy stood there in the cold night air, staring out at the cemetery. Distant headstones and old stone crosses stood out against the moonlight, looking for all the world like rows of broken teeth. They seemed to stretch for miles in all directions, melting away into the forest that surrounded the grounds. She looked for a shadow, moving shapes, anything that didn't belong, but she saw nothing. Twenty seconds ago she'd been fighting, but now they were alone, and the quiet was so dense it almost felt as if nothing that had happened in the past hour was real.

Her arm throbbed painfully, and she pressed her palm against it.

But she knew it had, and she knew that she had failed, just as she'd failed Merrick and Tisha and that woman in the alley. Her body count would grow again. She didn't know if she'd killed the boy in the locker, but Jesse she knew she could've saved. He'd been right there, within her reach, and she'd let him slip away.

"Ow."

The sound drew her attention, and she looked down at her newfound charges. Less than a day and they'd both found out her secret. Worse, they'd almost died for it.

"Let me help you," Willow was saying as Xander struggled to sit up.

"I think I like it better down here," he said.

Buffy exhaled. "Here," she said, reaching out for him. He took her hand, then used his other to prop himself up on Willow's shoulder. They rose in a huddle, and he wobbled unsteadily, letting go of her hand to rub his head again.

"That was a new experience for me," he said.

"Yeah," Willow said, voice distant and distracted.

Buffy backed up a pace, taking the opportunity to glance around again. She didn't expect to see anything, and when she didn't, she looked back at them. They were both staring at her, almost as if she was Superman or Batman or something and had responded to their distress call by blasting through a wall. She didn't know what to say, and she couldn't escape the guilt. Why was she standing there? She should've gone after Jesse.

Then again, she thought as they continued to stare at each other, she couldn't exactly have left these two here alone.

"How's your head?" she asked to break the growing silence.

Xander blinked at her, then withdrew his hand from his head, as if suddenly remembering it was there. "Oh, uh, you know, it's throbbing, but I'm pretty sure that'll go away."

"It will," she said. That much she knew at least, even as her own arm and a few ribs pulsed to her heart beat.

Willow glanced between them, but her eyes slipped down when Buffy met them.

"You alright?" Buffy asked her, trying to regain her eyes. She felt like she was responsible for her too.

"Oh, yeah, I'm good, you know, fine." She brushed her hair nervously behind her ears. "Everything's good. What just happened?"

She stared at them. What to say? This wasn't in the handbook.

Then again, she'd never had a handbook. Was there a handbook?

"Isn't it obvious?" Xander said, cutting through her internal rambling and rubbing his scalp again. "Buffy here is a Vampire Slayer."

Willow's brows creased, and she looked at him. "What?"

"Yeah," he dropped his hand. "I was at that stage before too. Strangely, past that now."

Willow looked over at Buffy, her sudden nervousness having evaporated almost as quickly as it had appeared.

"What he said," she answered her unspoken question.

"You're..." she looked around. "So, those were vampires?"

"Yes," she nodded. What the hell—they were past the point of cover stories anyway.

She looked back at her, "And you're a Vampire Slayer?"

"Yes."

"And," she pointed at her makeshift stake, "you slayed them?"

"Yes."

"With a stick?"

"Yes."

"Oh," she shifted. "That's...special."

Xander was looking around. "Jesse?"

Buffy swallowed, "I'm sorry, I..." what? She had tried? She had been too late?

Again, he swept his unsteady gaze over the cemetery. "We should look around," he said, lurching forward, "in case he, you know, got away." He only got a few steps before stumbling.

"Xander," Willow exclaimed, catching him. She looked at Buffy, "What should we do?"

"I..." her voice trailed off as she stared at them. Alone, she could spend the whole night looking, and she would, but they couldn't accompany her. She couldn't keep them safe, especially since one of them was only barely mobile. "I should take you home," she said finally. To do it was to effectively abandon Jesse to his fate, but she didn't really have a choice.

"But what about Jesse?" Willow voiced her thoughts.

She shifted, "I'm sorry, I don't know that we could find him."

"I'm not really eager to repeat the last twenty minutes of my life, but..." she bit her lip, "He's our friend, Buffy."

Her heart seemed to crush a little, and not just because her ribs were starting to feel like she'd been thrown into several walls. "I know," she said, "but..." she searched for the right words, "you can't really help." She glanced at Xander, who looked as if he was only a couple minutes away from tossing it all over the grass. "And he needs to go home," she nodded at him.

Willow looked back at him, brows scrunched.

"I'm good," Xander offered. Nothing about that statement was convincing.

Willow seemed to be of a similar mind. "You're right," she said.

Buffy sighed in relief. "Good, so I'll take you home. Xander," she looked at him, "maybe you should call your parents, tell them you're going to spend the night with Willow. Avoid questions."

"Yeah, good idea." He looked around, as if expecting a phone to have spontaneously sprouted from the ground. "Where?"

"There's a pay phone at the Bronze," Willow said. "We're not far."

"Okay," Buffy said, "I'll take you there, he can call, then I'll walk you home." She was planning aloud.

"Sounds good," Xander said. "Which way?"

She looked around, then paused suddenly, touching her hand to her chest. All at once she remembered the big vamp who had almost killed her—Luke—and the smell of the old coffin, and she felt the fear as he recited his prophecy and leaned down to bite her. She remembered the cross that had fallen out of her shirt, and the stranger in the alley.

She felt around her shirt, but neither the cross nor the box was still there. It wasn't surprising—at some point her over-shirt had fallen open—but she realized as she stood there that there was no way she could leave the graveyard without it. She didn't know if it had truly saved her life, but in a way it didn't matter. She needed to retrieve the stranger's token.

"Let's retrace back to the mausoleum," she said. "Find our way back from there."

"The mausoleum?" Willow repeated nervously. "Shouldn't we head away from there?"

Normally, she'd be inclined to agree. "I, uh...dropped something there, during the fight. I need to get it back." At their incredulous look, she quickly added, "I cleared the vamps from there. Besides, if anymore show up, I'll take care of them." She held up her torn-off branch, hoping that was reassurance enough. She didn't know if she believed what she was saying, but it really didn't matter as long as they did.

They both exchanged a look. After a beat, Xander said, "I'm choosing to trust you."

Buffy smiled grimly, then looked at Willow.

"I guess I will too," she said. "But we'll try to be fast?"

"As possible," she tried to sound soothing, and to compound her statement she started off. Her companions stuck close behind her, and she could feel their tension choking the air as they walked. When they came within view of the mausoleum a few minutes later, she could feel their anxiety ratchet up to the point where it seemed to be compressing her ribs.

She stopped when they reached the entrance, turning to face them. "You want to come in?" she asked. "Or you good to stay out here?"

They both glanced inside, then at her, then around them—at the cemetery grounds.

"I vote for the doorway," Willow said, stepping in just enough that the shadows cast by the mausoleum swallowed her, yet she wasn't quite inside. Xander joined her within moments.

"I'll only be a sec," Buffy said, then stepped all the way inside, down the steps, to the stone coffin where she'd so nearly died before. It couldn't have been more than ten minutes since that moment, and yet it felt like she was returning to an old crime scene.

She forced herself toward it, then lightly pulled herself up so she could balance there on the narrow coffin wall. She scanned the old cushions and the now broken skeleton where she had lain not long before, trying to catch a glimpse of silver through the gloom. A few minutes passed, then..._there, _she'd found it.

Despite all better judgment, she lowered herself back into the coffin, then reached down among the ruined fabric to feel for the silver she'd glanced. Her fingers quickly found what she was looking for, and she lifted the cross free, to hold it up against what little light had made its way into this tomb. It shined dully, and she retracted it back into her palm to squeeze it there.

After levering herself back out of the coffin, she held it up again to watch as it spun slowly in the air.

What had happened in that fight? Why had she let him throw her around like that? Had the cross truly saved her, or would she have been able to have done it herself?

The more she thought about it, the less certain she felt of an answer. She'd been afraid, and she'd been paralyzed by it. It had only taken that second of surprise on both their parts for her to remember herself, but in that moment before it...she didn't know.

It had been three months since she'd stopped training, two since she'd fought her last vampire. How much had she forgotten in that time? How much weaker was she?

She didn't know, but it frightened her that she had almost died tonight, and that she'd done so little to stop it.

Hesitantly, she looped the cool chain around her neck, then fastened it there. The cross felt heavy and reassuring on her chest, and she reached up to touch it again.

She hadn't wanted to be the Slayer. When she'd woken up this morning, she'd convinced herself that she was done, but now she knew. The reality was that she didn't have a choice, and she couldn't escape her fate. The time was past to fight it, and there would only be more bodies in the lockers and the cemeteries if she didn't step up.

She knew that with a clarity she'd never felt before as she stood there, next to the stone coffin where she'd so nearly died.

"Buffy?" a voice from the entryway. Willow. "You find it yet?"

She looked over at the two huddled figures, and then she made her way toward them. She had almost forgotten they were there. "Yeah," she said. "Yeah, let's go."

"Good," she said.

They didn't move from their hiding place until she'd left the mausoleum, and then they shadowed her steps as she led the way back in the direction she remembered coming from. The tension eased the further they got from the mausoleum, but it never dissipated. She sensed something from her newfound companions, that they were holding something back. They didn't say anything though, at least not until they'd almost cleared the graveyard.

"So..." Xander asked, finally breaking the protracted silence, "how is the new librarian involved again?"

She glanced back to see that Willow was staring at him in confused surprise. "Mr. Giles?" she asked. "He's involved?"

"Yeah," Buffy affirmed after only a slight pause. After all, if her cover was blown, there was no reason to keep his identity a secret. "He's..." she searched for an explanation, but she didn't really know what to say. Finally, she settled on, "It's complicated."

"So simplify it," Xander said.

"He's my Watcher," she acquiesced, knowing that would mean nothing to them. "Or, at least, my new one. He's been assigned to me, I guess."

"New one?" he repeated. "You had an old one?"

Suddenly, it felt as if something sharp had caught onto something raw inside her and ripped it open. "I..." she swallowed, "I don't want to talk about that."

Apparently sensing danger, he let it go. Silently, she thanked him for it.

Willow smoothed a long strand of hair behind her ear. "So he's not really a librarian?" she asked. "I thought...we'd been getting along so well."

"I don't know," she shrugged. "Maybe he's both."

"Oh..." her voice trailed off.

Buffy let the silence drag a few moments, but the sudden compulsion to speak, to offer them an in into her life gripped her. "We'll end up meeting in the library tomorrow, during first period probably," the words spilled out before she could stop them. "We have things to talk about. You guys are involved now—you know what's going on."

"So you want us in on the secret meeting?" Xander caught her drift.

"Yeah," she said, not knowing and almost not caring if she was going to regret this somewhere down the line. "You're involved, and Jesse's your friend. You deserve to know what's going on, and I can't tell you everything. I mean," she exhaled, "only if you want to know. I get it if you don't, if you want to step away."

He was silent for what seemed a long time. Willow was the first to reply. "Yeah," she said, "I do. I want to help."

"Me too," Xander said after another beat.

She glanced at them again, wondering what she had just done. She had given them an invitation into her world, and they had accepted, not really knowing the kind of danger they were stepping into. But as much as she was afraid for them, a part of her—a very small part of her—was relieved. Her burden seemed lessened now that she'd shared it, and the fact that they were still here, that they hadn't run away screaming, it was a comfort, though she wasn't entirely sure why.

"And it is a secret," she added, maybe just a tad belatedly for the conversation. "The meeting, what happened tonight, me—everything."

"Don't worry, Buffy," Xander said. "We've got your back on that one."

At that, she smiled again, though a little less grimly. She was finally done running from her fate, but, this time, she wasn't going to have to face it alone. Somehow that made it seem easier.

Somehow, that made her less afraid.


	27. Past and Present

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 2161  
><em>_Setting: The Harvest_

The grounds of Sunnydale High were still and quiet this late at night, standing in stark contrast to the buzz of activity that had been here twelve hours before. As Buffy walked along the quad, she thought about how peaceful it was, and how easily that illusion could be shattered, as it had been yesterday for the boy in the locker. Again she wondered if this town had always been as peaceful as it seemed at this moment. Had Hell tracked her here, or had the danger always been there, lurking in the anonymity of the shadows? She didn't know which option was worse, but from what she remembered of what Giles had said this morning, she was tentatively going to assume the latter.

She exhaled, thoughts slipping to Willow and Xander. It'd been twenty minutes since she'd left them at Willow's doorstep with the promise that she would begin hunting for Jesse come morning, but she hadn't told them she didn't know if she would ever be able to find him. She wondered if she'd never gone out tonight, if she'd never moved here, if she'd gone to Cleveland, how would the events of the night have unfolded? Would Willow ever have gone out to the cemetery? Would Jesse merely have fallen off the face of planet, never to be seen again?

She shook her head, pressing lightly against a door to test if it was unlocked. To her surprise, it was, and she pushed it open and walked inside. She couldn't live in the realm of what-ifs and maybes. She'd lived there long enough these past few months, and she just couldn't go there anymore.

Exhaling, she touched the cross at her throat.

She was done running away, and she was going to deal with her fate, whether or not she was ready for it. That was why she was here, why she hadn't gone home.

She stopped, looking up at the letters spelling out 'library' along the top of the doorway.

But what if he'd gone home?

Rolling her eyes at herself, she gave one of the doors a determined push, then walked inside.

At first, all she saw was that it was empty. There was a sea of books on the long table, where a bunch of little lamps were lit, but she didn't see Giles anywhere. As she stood there, she considered the possibility that he really was gone, that she could put this off till tomorrow, and she could go home and crawl into bed and nurse her new bruises, but then she forced herself forward.

"Giles?" she called softly, knowing in her heart he was around here somewhere. She sensed he wasn't the type to call early nights, or late ones.

Sure enough, she heard sounds coming from his office, and she slowly walked toward them. Giles almost ran straight into her when she reached the doorway, as they both had arrived there at the same time.

"Buffy," he said, stepping back. He looked surprised to see her there, and there was a book tucked under his arm.

"I'm back," she greeted. It sounded lame.

"Yes, hello, uh..." he shifted the book, "Did you find Willow?"

It suddenly felt very awkward, them standing there like that. "Yeah," she said.

He seemed to sense her feeling. "Do you want to sit down?" he asked, backing up a few steps and gesturing behind him.

"Yeah, sure." She followed him into the cramped little office space. There were more books in here, stacked haphazardly on every available flat surface, including the floor, beside lots of odd wood and bronze carvings and figures. It smelled strongly like book must and tea.

"Tea?" she said, looking around for and spotting the kettle. "Being a bit stereotypical there, Giles?"

"So it would appear," he gestured at a chair. "Do you want any?"

"No, thanks," she shook her head, taking it.

He sat at his desk chair, then put the book he'd been holding down. "So you were able to find Willow?" he asked, turning to face her. "She's alright?"

"Yeah," she nodded, pulling her legs up to sit cross-legged. "I mean..." her voice trailed off and she looked away. She didn't know how much to tell him, or where to start.

"Yes?" he was studying her.

He needed to know everything that had happened tonight. She knew that, and that was why she was here, but it felt so strange to be sitting here. It'd been a long time since she'd lost her Watcher, but in a way it felt like it had only been a couple weeks ago, maybe even just a few days. This was a conversation she was supposed to be having with Merrick, and yet she couldn't, because he was dead. They had never shared much with each other when he'd been alive to listen, and they hadn't even been all that close, but sitting here just felt wrong, though she wasn't entirely sure why.

"Buffy?" Giles prompted. He was trying to catch her eyes.

She met them, and in that moment she decided to just say it, "I kind of...I told them—Willow and Xander—I told them who I am, what I am. That I'm the Slayer."

He stared at her for a beat, and she looked away again. She wasn't sure how he was going to take this information. Hell, she wasn't even sure how Merrick would have taken it.

"You told them," he repeated finally.

"I didn't really have a choice," she said, looking at him. "Xander already knew, somehow, and when I saved them they couldn't exactly ignore the dead guy going all dusty."

"He was there?" he seemed to be trying to process what she was saying, but he wasn't yelling or lecturing, so that much was a good sign.

"Yeah," she said.

He leaned back, "How?"

"Well," she shifted, "we ran into each other, I asked him where Willow could've gone, blah blah, fast forward, we're in the mausoleum, there were vampires, wackiness ensued." She stopped. "Are you mad?"

"Uh, no," he pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, then replaced them. "No, Buffy, I'm not mad."

"Good," she said, "'Cause there's more."

He looked up, but didn't ask.

Where to start? "There was another boy there, Jesse. He..." she swallowed, then glanced down. "There were other vamps there, and everyone got separated, and I lost him."

There was a pause. "He's dead?"

Her eyes flew to his. "No," she said quickly, "No, at least, I don't think so. I don't know. They just took him." Her arm throbbed, and she pressed her palm to it. It felt warm there.

"They?" he said.

"There were..." she paused to think, "Six vampires."

"Six?" suddenly he looked concerned. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," her hand automatically dropped to her lap. "I mean, one of them kinda kicked the crap out of me, but the other five weren't really a big deal. Three of them are dust."

"And the other three?"

"Ran." Sort of. Her arm throbbed again, but she ignored it.

He exhaled, studying her. "You sure you're alright?"

She stared back at him and swallowed, remembering the fight with Luke. She wasn't alright. She knew it, and he needed to know it too. She hadn't trained properly in months, and tonight she'd felt weak and uncoordinated, more than she remembered feeling even during those weeks in August when she'd slayed her first vampires. Tonight it had almost cost her her life, and the lives of three other people, one of whom she'd yet to find—if she could ever find him.

"Buffy," Giles said again, drawing her attention. He reached out for her hand and touched it gently.

She had to tell him, because he was all she had. That was why she was here.

"One of them gave me trouble," she said finally. "I think one of the vamps called him Luke. He kicked me around, then started reciting some kind of prophecy or something."

His brows dipped a little. "A prophecy?" he repeated.

"Yeah," she said, exhaling. "Something about an offering to the Master, blood flowing like wine, Old Ones..." she shook her head. "I'm sorry, I don't really remember."

Slowly, he retracted his hand, his gaze becoming distant. " 'And on the third day of the newest light will come the Harvest,' " he said quietly, " 'and the blood of men will flow as wine, and the Master will again walk among them. The Old Ones will take the Earth.' "

She could feel hair rising at the back of her neck at his words. "Okay, Giles," she said, "subscribing to a little more than the Time Life series there?"

"What?" he looked at her. "No, uh, I came across that passage in a book, this book, actually," he tapped the one at his elbow, the one he'd been holding when she'd first arrived. "I was working on translating the full text when you arrived."

"Oh," she said, still feeling a little unsettled. "Sorry for interrupting."

"No, don't be," he turned back to her. "So this Luke recited that to you?"

"Yeah," she replied, trying to push away the memory of his weight on top of her. "So whatever this Harvest deal is, it's a big one?"

"It would seem, but I don't know," he said. "I'm afraid I'll have to consult my books a bit further before we can be sure of anything."

She was disappointed, though didn't know why. "But a breakthrough is on the verge?" she asked.

He nodded, "Quite possibly."

That made her feel a little better. "Good," she said. "That's good."

He was studying her again, "Is there something else, Buffy?"

She met his gaze. Suddenly, she wondered how much he knew about the last few months of her life. Did he know what had happened to Merrick, about what had happened to her? And if he didn't, did she really want to tell him?

She thought she did, but as she stared at him, she couldn't seem to form the words. So instead she said, "No." Calling a smile to her lips, she continued, "No, everything's good. Just a bit sore."

If he suspected her nondisclosure, he didn't pursue it. "Okay," he said after a pause. "Want me to steal an ice pack from the nurse's station?"

"What?" the thought was so far out of left field, she smiled, and it was legitimate this time. "No," she said, "I'm fine, really."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah," she said, waving her hand. "And, actually, I really should get home. It's late."

As if suddenly remembering that it was the middle of a night, he glanced at his watch. "You're right."

Nodding, she got up, and so did he.

"Do you want a ride?" he asked.

She looked at him, almost surprised at his offer. It hadn't even occurred to her to ask for one. "Sure," she said, then added, "Thanks."

He smiled, then pulled his tweed jacket off his chair. "No, it's the least I can do, given the circumstances," he said, picking up the book he'd been holding earlier.

She wondered what circumstances he had in mind, but didn't ask. She wasn't going there tonight.

As she followed him to the door, her thoughts slipped nervously to her mother. At this hour, she may very well have gone to bed already, and the more she thought about it, the less she was sure she could make it from the front door to her bedroom without waking either her or her sister up.

Sudden thought: had she left her window unlocked? Maybe there was a chance she could scale up to the second floor of her house from the outside and get in that way.

She exhaled. So it would be back to window entrances again.

Great.

"You know, Buffy," Giles said suddenly, opening the door, "I know we've only just met, but I hope you know you can talk to me."

Her thoughts slammed back to the present, and she paused, looking up at him. "Yeah," she said, thinking about what he'd said. "Yeah, I know." Though she didn't know if she believed it.

"Good," he nodded, then started forward again. "Well, let's be off then. I think we could both use some rest."

"Yeah," she said, following him out the door, "I think I can agree to that."


	28. Fears

_Character: Buffy Summers_

_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 1954  
><em>_Setting: The Harvest_

_A/N: And so I (briefly) return from the land of paper research and old Ze Frank videos to bring you this. More will come after...more paper writing...(patience appreciated)_

With a grunt, Buffy pulled herself up onto the ledge, then paused, both to listen and to breathe. Of the four nights she'd lived in Sunnydale, this would be the second in a row she'd had to sneak home through the roof, and it was already starting to feel old to her. But she suspected that this would not be the last time she'd have to do this, and already she was starting to resign herself to it, as she'd resigned herself to so many things these last few days.

Hearing nothing, she made her way to her window, then eased her bag through it. She followed it, and once she was inside her bedroom she quickly stuffed it inside her closet, hoping to god she hadn't been heard at any point in the process. Just as hurriedly as she'd entered, she reached for the first pair of pajamas she could find and changed into them, yanking the tie out of her hair as she went. Then she grappled for her school bag, pulled out her notebook, a few random books, and a small fistful of pens and pencils, all of which she dumped on her bed.

And then she stood there, staring down at the scene she'd created. The illusion was complete, and she'd successfully made it home with her mother none the wiser.

Now that she was still, her thoughts immediately slid back to the Bronze, and back to the fight. She remembered jumping down from the second floor, staking the vamp with the pool cue, Luke's arms as they had encircled her chest. She felt the exhilaration as she'd killed him, as she'd watched the remaining vamps flee from her, and she again felt that vague sense of emptiness as the adrenaline had drained away and left her cool and almost a little dissatisfied.

Tonight she'd claimed Sunnydale as her own. The Bronze and the high school and all of the town were now under her reluctant protection, and now the undead knew it, perhaps more so than they'd ever known back in LA. And she knew it too.

She laughed suddenly, squeezing the bridge of her nose between her fingers.

She really knew it, deep in the pit of her soul. She would be back to facing death on a nightly basis, back to hiding the truth from her parents—or, her mother at least. The fate of the world would again hang on her shoulders, up until that moment something killed her.

She wondered if Giles was the type to be drinking rum on some beach when her number finally came up, and she laughed harder, almost hysterically. She saw him in his tweed basking under a palm tree, bendy strawed coconut in hand, and she saw herself, dead in an alley, the figure from her dream smiling over her. This really was her life again, wasn't it?

She sniffed loudly, blinking back tears that she didn't know were from laughing or from crying. It was all just so ridiculous. She'd snuck out her window to avert the apocalypse tonight, and all the while her mother had been downstairs, thinking she was sulking in her room.

If it wasn't all so real, she'd be tempted to think she'd never left New Horizons at all, and that she was still in some padded room, straitjacketed and screaming that the sky was falling and the earth was cracking open.

Shaking her head, she shoved all of the things she'd set on her bed off it, then dropped onto it to stare up at the ceiling. After a beat, she felt around the sheets for a stuffed animal, and, finding Mr. Gordo, she raised him to eye level.

"You and me again," she murmured, then dropped him over her eyes. She wanted the lights off, just so she could sleep and forget these last few days, but now that she was lying there she couldn't seem to summon the will to get up again. It didn't matter. She could sleep in the light.

She closed her eyes, but her thoughts kept turning over the fight. She wondered who the Master was, and what he wanted with her. Though, she paused, that last part was easy. He wanted her dead.

Well, he could take a number.

Suddenly her thoughts froze, as if someone had jammed a stick between the cogs, and images flooded her vision. A ruined church, a pool of blood, and cold, red eyes. The figure from her dream had been a vamp, yes, but he felt different, and while it had been a dream, she knew he was real, and suddenly she also knew that he wasn't in Cleveland as she'd speculated yesterday morning. He was here, in Sunnydale, underground somewhere, and he was the one who wanted her dead.

He was the Master.

She could see him clearly, and she felt the slightest prickling of fear in her guts as she remembered the way he'd looked at her.

She may have won the fight tonight, but she knew she wasn't in the same condition she had been in several months ago. She felt like she was only half a Slayer, and she knew that as it stood now, if she faced the Master she would die.

She reflected back to what she'd said to Giles yesterday night, or, rather, what she hadn't said. She hadn't brought up her fears tonight either, even after they'd dropped Willow and Xander home and had been alone in his squat, ugly little car, and she didn't know why. She didn't know if it was because of Merrick or if it was just that she didn't trust him, but she knew further avoidance would only get her killed, and fast. If there was anything about Sunnydale she'd figured out, it was that only the fit or the extraordinarily lucky survived.

In a way it didn't matter what her hesitation was, because regardless she was going to have to get over it. If she couldn't retire from being the Slayer, then she had no choice but to learn to live with it. Tomorrow, she would see Giles, and she would tell him everything, and she would return to her training. Maybe he wasn't Merrick, but he was her Watcher, and right now that was who she needed.

Still, she wondered if she would ever be ready to face the Master, because at the moment she sure as hell didn't feel like it.

A knock on the door distracted her from her thoughts, and she sat up abruptly. The plushy pig slid off her face. "What?" she said. It came out more petulant than she had intended it to.

The door opened, and she expected to see her mother, but it was Dawn, who was standing there with a plate of what looked like chopped apples in her hand. She looked apprehensive about something.

"Yes?" she said, eying both her and the food, suddenly reminded she hadn't eaten since breakfast this morning.

"Mom said you should eat something," she said. "There are leftovers in the fridge. Here," she extended the plate out, "these are for you."

Buffy stared at her for a beat. The absurdity of the realization that her mother and sister had been eating dinner while she had been battling the undead in the Bronze almost threw her into a fit of more hysterical laughter, but she swallowed the impulse and rolled off the bed.

But Dawn drew the plate back when she reached her. "Why weren't you at dinner?" she asked.

"I wasn't hungry," she lied.

"Mom seemed mad," she said. The apprehension had faded, and now she was regarding her almost angrily. "Did you two fight?"

"What?" she said, somewhat taken aback by the sudden heat from her sister. "No, we didn't fight."

"Then why did she ask me to bring these to you, instead of doing it herself?" she asked. "You're lying."

"I'm not lying," she tried to assure her.

"You are," she said. "Dad's gone, and now you two are fighting." Her chin trembled, and she looked away.

The reason for all this was suddenly becoming clear to her. "Dawn," she said, kneeling to look up at her. "It wasn't anything. We just had a disagreement."

"Then why did you lie? Why didn't you come to dinner?"

"It's complicated," she said. That statement so failed to cover the reason why, she would have laughed if anyone else could've been in on the joke.

"Dad said that too," she insisted.

Before he started working late, missing dinners and sometimes not even returning home until late in the night. She exhaled, knowing what her sister was afraid of. "I'm not going anywhere, Dawn," she tried to assure her, taking the plate from her and setting it on the floor, then grabbing her small hands between her own. "Really, it didn't mean anything."

"Then will you fix it?" she asked.

"Fix it?" she repeated.

"Say you're sorry," she said. "If you say it she'll forgive you, and then we can we can watch the opening part of the late show before we have to go to bed."

"You want me to apologize?" she said, brows dipping.

"Yes," Dawn glared down at her. She had decided Buffy was at fault for this, and the mix of reproach and betrayal in her eyes made her feel an inordinate amount of guilt—guilt she wasn't sure she deserved but she could feel herself accepting anyway.

"Okay," she said, flashing her a smile that she hoped looked more real than it felt. "I'll go apologize now."

"Good," she said.

She smoothed her hair, then pushed to her feet, restraining a wince from joints that were just starting to remember tonight's fight. "I'll be out in a minute," she told her, remembering the plate on the floor and bending to grab it.

"No, now," she said.

"Dawn," she lowered her tone to a growl, weighting it with sisterly threat as she straightened again. "It'll be a minute."

Her eyes blazed petulantly, but she relented. "A minute," she repeated.

"Yes," she said. "Now go," she chin-nodded at the door.

After a beat, Dawn turned, but she left the door wide open behind her as she turned the corner and walked out of sight.

Buffy watched her go, then shook her head. She never saw herself as having much in common with her sister, but occasionally she forgot that they both had inherited the tendency to grab the bit between their teeth and run with it.

She sighed, her thoughts darkening. Dawn feared that she would walk out of her life like their father had, and to some degree her fears were justified. Just one wrong move, one wrong turn, and she would fall out of her family's lives forever—only wherever she ended up, she was pretty sure there wouldn't be any phone access.

She stared down at a brown spot on one of the apples in the plate she held.

But right now she was safe, or as safe as she could ever be with a master vamp after her head, and she was home. After these last few days, she needed stasis as much as her sister did.

And so she grabbed an apple slice, bit into it, and headed out her open door. This was the only problem in her life that could be solved with something as simple as an apology, and that much she could definitely handle.


	29. Telenovela

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 2515  
><em>_Setting: The Harvest_

Buffy paused when she reached the little concrete step, staring at the door. Through the frosted glass, she could make out lights and the smudged shadows of furniture and a couple plants. She'd been on this stoop just the other day, but tonight it all suddenly felt like foreign territory, like a place she didn't belong. For a moment, she thought about turning and walking away, of slipping back into the night and pretending as if she'd never come, as if she'd forgotten all about the plans they'd made for the night. The part of her that was afraid wanted to, but the rest of her so desperately wanted to stay, and so she reached forward to tap the doorbell.

She fingered the cross at her chest as she waited for an answer. She hadn't taken it off for two days now, whether for protection or for morale support she didn't know.

Nervousness flickered through her gut when she saw a shape moving toward the door, and suddenly she felt a little sick, though she didn't know why.

The door swung open, and she was enveloped in a burst of warm air that smelled like kettle corn and fish.

"Buffy!" Xander said, smiling as he looked at her. There was chocolate smeared across the right side of his face.

She felt the nervousness melt away, and she relaxed. She didn't know why, but she had almost expected him to be angry with her. "Xander," she greeted, smiling back.

He stepped aside, and she walked across the threshold. "Glad you made it," he said. "You're just in time to find out whether Esteban's dead or if he faked it. Either way, José's gonna make his move on Maria tonight."

Her brows creased. His words had come so far out of left field she didn't even know how to process them. "What?" she said.

"_Dos Hombres y Una Mujer,_" he replied in broken Spanish as Willow walked into the foyer. "The telenovela in which we learn that _nada es para siempre. T_he only way to spend a Wednesday night."

"Especially when you're broke," Willow supplied. She was gripping a bowl of popcorn about the size of a small car engine to her chest. "Hey, Buffy," she said.

"Hey," she said.

The three of them stood there for a moment; Xander glanced into the living room. "Story time," he said, then began walking away. The girls followed him.

"How was patrol?" Willow asked. "That's what you call it, right?"

"Right," Buffy said. She had told them that that was what she was going to do before coming. "All's quiet in Sunnydale." She'd told her mother she was going out to see her friends, but instead she had walked through what looked like an endless row of headstones in a cemetery that seemed to go on forever. Her walk had produced no monsters, whether because there weren't any or because they'd recognized her and ran she didn't know.

"That's good," Willow said. "That it's quiet."

They walked into her bedroom, and Xander immediately dropped into a beanbag chair. Willow dragged a wicker chair in front of her cabinet, opened it to reveal a television, then fished around for a remote. Once she had it, she tossed it to Xander, curled up in her chair, and set the bowl on the floor.

Buffy watched them, unsure of where to go.

Willow noticed, "You can take the bed, Buffy. It's got one of those foam things."

Realizing her awkwardness, Buffy slipped off her tennis shoesand hopped on the bed. Xander flipped on the television, and after a few moments of channel switching, the sounds of Spanish filled the air. It was a car commercial, and Buffy reached down for a small handful of popcorn, her eyes already trained on the TV, though she had no idea what anyone was saying.

"What're we watching again?" she asked when the ad had ended, replaced by something that was either carpet cleaning or bug control.

"Something that defies explanation," Xander said.

Buffy looked at Willow.

"José and Esteban are brothers and they both love Maria," she said. "Only Esteban's engaged and José was just diagnosed with either terminal cancer or some kind of flesh-eating bacterial thing. I'm not too clear."

"Oh," she said.

"Maria's three sisters are all married," she continued. "Maria's in love with José, but he hasn't told her he's sick, and we're pretty sure Claudia Elizabeth – that's her sister – slept with him. We're not sure though."

"We're not sure of much," Xander said.

"It's kind of hard to follow," she agreed.

"But Maria's definitely hot."

Both girls looked at him.

"Xander," Buffy said after a beat, "you have chocolate on your face."

His calm expression shattered as horror flashed across his face. "What?" he said, touching fingers to his cheek.

"Here," she said, gesturing around her own lips.

He looked mortified, then began wiping furiously at his face. "Why didn't you say anything?" he asked, looking at Willow. "How long you were you going to let me walk around like this?"

"I was planning to call you tomorrow," she said, eating a single kernel of popcorn.

"Ha ha," he said, not laughing. He dropped his hand. "Is it gone?"

They both leaned forward to study his face.

"You're clear," Buffy said after a beat, rolling back.

He relaxed, then grabbed for a massive handful of popcorn, which he promptly shoved into his mouth.

"It's on," Willow said.

He looked up from his hands, then fumbled for and grabbed the remote. The volume meter went up several degrees, and suddenly the sound of Spanish crooning over quiet piano strokes was blasting from the little television.

Buffy reached for more popcorn, already feeling strangely fascinated by the credit sequence.

They were all quiet for awhile, as the credit sequence faded to what sounded like a "previously on," and as that transitioned to the first act. Buffy didn't have the slightest idea what was going on, and she sensed Xander didn't either, as he occasionally asked Willow what characters were saying. She gathered that José was the one in the hospital bed, that Maria was the one with short, black hair, and that Claudia Elizabeth was the tall one with the long, brown hair. Claudia Elizabeth had indeed slept with José, and by the second act the two of them had started arguing about something.

Their industrial size bowl of popcorn was quickly decimated. By the time the second ad break came around, they were all scrounging for the kernels and Xander was talking about making more. "I'll do it," Buffy volunteered after the second time he mentioned it.

"Really?" he said. "Cool."

"There's another packet on the counter," Willow said. "Want me to come with you?"

"Nah, I got it," she replied, waving her off. "Tell me if I miss anything."

"Okay," she said. "Thanks, Buffy."

"No problem," she rolled off the bed, reached for the bowl, then headed off in search of the kitchen.

As the packet spun around the microwave, Buffy's thoughts drifted from telenovelas and sleazy affairs to matters of more immediacy. She planned to go straight from this house to the library to talk to Giles. She had told him she wanted to see him, and he had said he would be there late, and to stop by whenever she wanted. To some degree, she still didn't really want to see him, but she knew she needed to, and she knew he had sensed at least a few of her conflicting thoughts.

Still, she thought, tapping the open button for the microwave, she'd been nervous coming here tonight, and it had been unnecessary. If Willow and Xander were angry at her for potentially bringing ruin to their lives, they weren't giving any indication.

She dumped the popcorn into the bowl, then headed back for the bedroom. She heard them talking as she approached, and despite herself she stopped, that small, niggling part of her brain afraid they were talking about her.

"I know," Willow was saying. "What'd you tell her?"

"Well, I couldn't tell her what happened," Xander replied. "I just said I hadn't seen him. I think she called the police."

"Oh, god," she paused. "We should tell her something."

"What? Your son's not missing; he was a vampire, but don't worry, I killed him?"

Buffy's breath froze in her throat.

"You didn't kill him, Xander," she said. "You heard what Giles said, what Buffy said."

"I know," he exhaled. "I know. It's just...weird, you know?"

"Yeah, I know," she said.

"We were friends," he said. "Were. The past tenseyness is weird."

"Yeah..." her voice trailed off.

Buffy stood there, gripping the popcorn to her chest. She suddenly felt sad, and as if she had forced her way into a world that didn't want her. Jesse was her fault, just as Tisha and Merrick had been. She felt toxic, and for just a moment she wondered if she would kill her new friends too. The thought was almost too terrible to bear, and again she wanted to run, hard and fast, before she could cause anyone anymore grief.

But then Willow spoke, "I wonder what's taking her. I was sure there was still a package left."

"I don't know," Xander said. "Want me to go check and make sure she's not taking apart the pantry looking for another box?"

"I'll go," she said.

Self-awareness slammed back into her, and Buffy forced herself to walk forward and into the room. "Back," she said, plastering a smile she didn't feel onto her face.

"Oh," Willow said, settling back in her chair. "We were just going to look for you."

"Sorry," she said. "Guess I kinda zoned."

"No worries," she said.

Buffy set the bowl back on the floor, then reclaimed her place on the bed, but this time she couldn't listen to what was going on on the screen. All she could think about was Tisha, and about Jesse. She thought about Giles, and about all the things she would have to tell him not too long from now. Again she found herself wondering how much he knew, about how much he would want to know, and about how much she wanted him to know.

Too late she realized Willow was watching her, and she looked up to meet her eyes.

"You alright?" she asked.

"I'm fine," Buffy said automatically.

Xander glanced back at her, and then they were both looking at her as the sounds of rapid-fire Spanish filled the gap between them.

"I'm sorry about Jesse," the words suddenly slipped from her lips. She hadn't meant to say them, and it was silent for such a protracted beat she wasn't sure she even had.

"I am too," Xander said, glancing away.

"I, well, I overheard you talking earlier, and I just," she blew out a breath. "I don't know, I'm sorry." She didn't tell them she felt responsible. She didn't want to know if they blamed her.

"It's alright, Buffy," Willow said, then paused, as if reconsidering her words. "Well, not alright, but, you know..." she shrugged out a bit of a helpless gesture. "I know you really tried."

"Yeah," she said, voice tinged with bitterness. "I tried."

The silence between them was punctuated by the sound of synthesizers and Spanish. Somebody was arguing, and whatever they were saying sounded important.

"I know what it's like," she said quietly, so quietly she wasn't sure they'd heard. More words she hadn't meant to voice, that she hoped they hadn't heard. She was staring at a wrinkle in the bedspread.

Willow spoke first, "What?"

So she had really said it. "I know what you feel like," she said. Her words sounded broken.

She heard something, and then she felt the bed compress at her side. "What do you mean?" Willow asked. She was beside her now.

She looked over at her. Suddenly the TV was muted, and silence sucked away all the air in the room. Her mouth seemed paper dry. "I've lost people too," she said.

Concern flashed through Willow's face, followed immediately by a certain sadness. "I'm sorry, Buffy," she said.

They were all sorry, for each other and for themselves.

"What happened?" Xander asked. "Or do you want to talk about it?"

She looked between them, and she realized that she did, and that some part of her had been wanting to tell them since before she'd arrived. "My Watcher, and my best friend," she said, looking down again. "They both died, and I couldn't save them."

"Oh, Buffy," Willow breathed.

"I tried," she said again. "But it's funny how trying feels so much like failure."

"Is that why you're here?" she asked. "Why you moved?"

Memories of New Horizons flashed through her eyes unbidden, of the burning gym and Lothos and the fire, of her parents and that moment when her mother had told her about the divorce. "No," she said. "Well, not really. It contributed."

"Does your mom know?" Xander asked.

"Only about Tisha – my friend," she replied, forcing herself to look back up at them. "She knows I was there, just not really what happened." And god had that cost her.

"Does she know about...you know?"

"That I'm the Chosen One?" she asked. "No." She couldn't continue to look at them, so she directed her eyes at the wrinkle in the bedspread again. "No, she just thinks I'm in some kind of gang, or something like that. That I'm a troublemaker." It was silent for a beat, then two. Apparently they were all struggling for something to say. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean...I dunno. I'm not trying to trivialize at all, I just want you to know I know what it's like, and that I know it's hard."

More silence.

Xander finally broke it, "I think we can all agree life sucks?"

"Yeah," Buffy and Willow both said simultaneously.

"So what do we do?"

Buffy exhaled. "I think we find out if José falls for Claudia Elizabeth's charms. Wil, do you have any ice cream?"

"Strawberry and I think a little butter pecan," she replied.

She nodded, "I think we should just eat all of it."

"I think you're right," Xander said.

They all seemed to rise as one.

"Let's do it," Buffy said.

And so they did.


	30. Safe

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 2050  
><em>_Setting: The Harvest_

"Giles?" Buffy called as she pushed open one of the sturdy library doors. "I'm sorry it's so late. Are you still here?"

Sudden sounds of movement from the rows of bookcases upstairs told her he was indeed still here, and she felt an inexplicable flood of relief. It had been nearly two hours since she'd left her house for Willow's, and she'd been nursing the fear that he had already gone home most of the walk to Sunnydale High. She didn't know why, but it felt important that she see him tonight, that she finally start the conversation she'd been having in her head with him for the past two days. Now he was here, and she was here, and they were going to talk, like she'd meant to when she'd first come to him after she'd lost Jesse in the cemetery.

"Buffy," Giles said, appearing from behind a bookcase.

"Hi," she said lamely.

He studied her for a beat. "Is there something wrong?" he asked finally.

"No," she said automatically, then revised, "Yes. I mean..." her voice trailed off, and she smoothed hair behind her ear. "You remember when you said I could talk to you?" she asked.

He paused, then began making his way down the stairs. "Yes," he said. "And I meant it, Buffy, anything at all. As your Watcher, I'm here for you."

He came to a stop several feet from her, and she nodded, letting her eyes slip away. "Can we talk then?"

"Of course," she looked up to see him gesture at the long table, where several boxes had appeared since this morning. "We can sit, if you like."

"We can," she said, and together they took a chair on opposite ends of the table. Then she stared at him, unsure of what she really wanted to say. It seemed as if she'd had this conversation a hundred times, but now that she was actually here, and now that she'd actually set the ball in motion, she couldn't remember any of the words she'd come up with before. So instead she just said, "How much do you know?"

His brows dipped, "About what?"

"About," she made an all-encompassing sort of gesture, "...me. About everything. I mean, what did they tell you? The Council?"

His eyes left hers for a moment, and he leaned back. "Not much, honestly."

"But you know — I mean, they told you about Merrick, right?"

"Yes," at this he looked at her again. "And I am sorry, Buffy."

She nodded, swallowing, then pulled her legs up onto the chair. "What specifically did they say?" she said.

"Only that there was an accident. That he was killed and you didn't check in with the Council, so there was a bit of a confusion."

"A confusion," she repeated quietly. Her mouth felt dry, and she swallowed again. Fragmented memories were streaming behind her eyes, "Did you talk to Rebecca Sofer?" she asked. "Or did she talk to you?"

"Miss Sofer?" he repeated. "No. I don't believe we were ever able to talk outside normal meetings."

That cut, though she didn't know why, and her gaze slipped down. She'd been harsh with Sofer, and she'd denied her, but in that five minutes she'd poured so much of her anger and fear and feelings of betrayal out onto the table for her to see. She'd been more honest with her than she'd been with Merrick, or with anyone. Had that meant nothing? Was none of it relevant to the Council? Was she truly just a tool to them?

"I had heard she went out to meet with you," Giles' voice broke through her thoughts. "She was to be your new Watcher, but you two had a disagreement when she found you, so it was decided I might be better suited."

"Disagreement?" she repeated, then looked up. Anger roared through her like fire. "That's what she told you? We had a _disagreement?_"

He tensed visibly, apparently sensing danger. "She didn't return to the Council after she left you. Quentin Travers – the director – relayed what happened before appointing me."

"Oh," she shrugged helplessly. The anger was draining away. "He made some interesting edits."

"What happened?" he leaned forward.

"It's not important," she waved him off, then settled her hands against her knees. "So you really don't know anything, do you?"

He was studying her. "I'm sorry to say, Buffy, I don't know much more than what I've said."

"So you don't know who killed Merrick, or why?"

He exhaled and shook his head. "No."

"It was a vampire named Lothos." He nodded at that, recognition flaring in his eyes. "You've heard of him?" she asked.

"Yes," he nodded. "He's known for chasing myths. Spent a good half a century looking for the Gem of Amarra and the Amulet of K'resh. Eventually he started going after Slayers in accordance with the Zulrak Prophecy." His eyes seemed to focus again. "He killed your Watcher?"

"Yes," she said. "And then he attacked my school, on the night of a dance. He came with lots of friends, lots and lots of friends, and I killed him." She exhaled hard. "I killed him, and I burned down the gym, and I was expelled." She didn't know at what point she'd started staring at the table again, but she was seeing a lot of scuffs on the beaten wood. "And he did it for fun, Giles. That's why he killed Merrick, why he tried to kill me – because it was fun for him."

There was silence for a few moments, and then out of the corner of her eye she saw Giles get up. He dragged the chair he'd been sitting in closer to her, so that they would be face to face if she could ever look up.

"I'm sorry, Buffy," he said. He was trying to catch her eye, and after a beat she finally let him.

"I wish that was it," she said, then inhaled. She was going to say it, all of it. He had to know everything, even what she hadn't told Willow and Xander. "A week later, a couple vamps in an alley, they killed my best friend. They killed her, and I was right there, but I couldn't stop them. I kinda lost it." She shook her head. "I told my mom about me, about being the Slayer, and..." she stopped. She didn't want to say it, even though she knew she needed to.

Hesitantly, Giles reached forward and touched her hand. After a moment, she placed her palm over it, and distantly she marveled at how much larger his hands were than her own.

"She took me to a clinic," she continued finally. "A mental hospital. They thought I'd been raped or assaulted or something. That I'd lost my mind. I was there for two weeks, Giles," she looked into his eyes, and she knew her glare was becoming accusatory. "Two weeks. It took two months for the Council to find me, and in that time I lost my school, my best friend, I was tossed in the looney bin, and my family broke apart. You know what brought me here, Giles?" she was angry again, though she didn't want to be. "It wasn't the Hellmouth or destiny. It was because my parents divorced, because my mother had to find a school that would take me." She laughed suddenly and hollowly, again looking down at their hands on her knee, "I guess a little arson isn't much of a black mark here in Sunnydale?"

"Buffy..." he started, then stopped.

"I know," she stared at an ice cream stain on her pants, "you're sorry. Well, I'm sorry too."

"I am sorry though," he said. He squeezed her hand lightly, and she looked up at him. She realized she was almost crying.

"What am I to you?" she asked. It was the same question she'd posed to Merrick all those months ago in the warehouse, but now they seemed more important than anything, and she needed to know his answer, because if she didn't hear what she needed to then she knew she was done.

Giles seemed to know that, and he was silent for a long time. Finally, he squeezed her hand again. "You are Buffy Summers," he said. "You are both a young woman and a Slayer, and you've been given a hard path to follow, and to forge." He exhaled, "I wish I could say I understood, or that you'll eventually find that the way becomes less rocky, but I'm afraid at the end of the day all I can really do is try to help you find the strength to keep soldiering on."

She stared at him. She didn't know if that was what she wanted to hear, because she didn't really know what she wanted to hear, but as they sat there like that she realized she felt safer than she had in a long time, since she'd found Merrick dead on the warehouse floor. "Thank you," she said finally. The words failed to cover her feelings, but they seemed right all the same.

"Thank you for feeling you could speak to me," he said.

She smiled. She could feel hot tears on her cheeks, and she wanted to wipe them away, but at the same time she just wanted to hold his hand, because it felt safe, and in some strange way almost like having her dad back. "That's not it though," she said.

Concern flashed through his face, and she hastily added, "I'm done with story time, but that's not the only thing I came here to talk about." Carefully, she lifted her hand and wiped her eyes, and he released her, perhaps sensing it was time for her to rebuild the walls. "I need to get back into training," she said. "Not counting these last few days, it's been a long time since I've really fought anything, and I can feel it." She exhaled. "I feel like half a Slayer, Giles, and if I'm going to do this, I need to prepare. Whoever this Master is, I need to know that when I face him..." her voice trailed off as she searched for words. "That he won't just kill me right there," she finished.

He nodded. "That much at least I know I can help you with."

"Thank you," she said again, and she meant it.

"It's my duty," he replied. "We can start training tomorrow."

"Good," she sighed, feeling enormously better. "That's good."

He studied her for several moments, "Is there anything else?"

She shook her head, "No. I think I'm all tapped out."

"Right then," he rose. "Then it's late, and we're both tired. Come on, I'll drive you home."

She sniffed, wiping the last evidence of tears from her face, then got up too. "You're becoming like my ride service," she said, shooting for a levity that hadn't been there most of the night, or even most of these last few days.

"Maybe that's my other duty," he said.

"Works for me," she followed him as he headed for the door, but he stopped after only a few steps, and she looked up at him.

"I really am sorry about everything that has happened to you, Buffy," he said. "And I hope that you can start a new chapter of your life here, one with a lot less grief."

She looked at him for a beat, reflecting back on everything that had happened since her calling, on all the pain and all the loss. "Yeah," she said finally. "I hope so too."

He flashed her a grim smile. "Off we go then."

"Off we go," she repeated.


	31. Velcro

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 2374  
><em>_Setting: Witch_

_A/N: Yep, I'm back. At the time of posting, Witch chapters are mostly done and TP has been outlined, so at the least I can guarantee you several more chapters._

Buffy was still holding the flier she'd taken off the sandwich board outside the gym, still half reading it as she approached her locker and reached for the padlock. She didn't know what had possessed her to take it when she'd first seen it, but the longer she stared at it the more reluctant she felt to throw it away.

She glanced up to enter her combination, then shoved her school stuff inside, laying them haphazardly over her makeup bag and a couple of stakes. The flier went in with the stack, but after a pause she pulled it back out, as if expecting that the answer to her mixed feelings would suddenly appear on the page in big, bold, indelible ink.

But the paper didn't change, and neither did its message or her feelings about it: cheerleading tryouts were next Tuesday.

And she wanted to go.

Grabbing her workout clothes, she shut and relocked her locker, then started off down the hall, flier still in hand, only barely paying attention to passing students.

She'd seen the notice yesterday, but after spending the night and the majority of today's classes considering, the idea was becoming more and more attractive to her. She missed the skirt, the dancing, watching the boys running up the pitch, missed feeling like a girl. By the time Hemery had booted her, half the student body had been too afraid of her to meet her eyes, but when she was a cheerleader they'd been in the stands, cheering her on. She'd been that cute blonde girl, her afternoons filled with shopping and dating, her heart light, airy, unburdened. That girl had never known vampires or seen death in back alleys, and never in her wackiest daydreams would she have thought to burn down the gym.

In Sunnydale it'd only taken a day for her rep to slip, and already she'd seen people with _that_ look, like she was a loaded gun on an unsteady table. Whether it was because news of the circumstances of her expulsion had somehow spread or because Cordelia had recounted her version of their run-in at the Bronze to anyone who would listen, she didn't know, but she did know she couldn't take them looking at her like that anymore.

She just wanted to be normal, or, at the least, to feel normal between the hours of eight and two-thirty five days a week. It didn't seem like too much to ask, but then again she supposed she was lucky enough not to have ended up dead or jailed by now.

The locker room was empty when she reached it, and there she changed from school clothes to sweats. It was time for day two of training with the British librarian, and as she slipped her shirt over her head, she wondered what Giles' reaction to her decision would be.

Despite their heart to heart that night after the Harvest kibosh, animosity still sparked between Buffy and her new Watcher. He'd insisted on starting her at the basics with her training, opening yesterday with a tutorial on how to bandage her fists, as if she was still green. Objections slid off his deaf, British ears, and though he'd given his permission for her to begin nightly patrols – as if she needed it – he trusted her with little else. She'd spent most of yesterday listening to his ramblings about _vampyrs_ and the Council and the latest demonathing he'd read about in some book, and had begun nursing the suspicion that Rubert Giles not only had never dealt with a Slayer in his life, but had never so much as talked to a woman under twenty before. As far as she could tell, Giles had probably been swaddled in tweed and indoctrinated as a Watcher before ever encountering the outside world.

For her part, she had only barely listened to him. Merrick had worshiped books almost as much as Giles did, but nothing they contained had helped him when it counted. Neither had they been of any use to her, with Lothos or anyone else. The Slayer slays, the Watcher reads, and as much as she'd decided to be open with Giles, she wasn't sure if she trusted or respected him yet.

Hell, she wasn't even sure if he liked her.

Sighing, she picked up her clothes and headed for the door. She found the halls already deserted as she made her way to the library, and as she walked she thought about what she'd tell him about the cheerleading, or if she even should tell him, if it was even his business, if she cared what he thought about it. She was still turning it over by the time she reached the double doors, and she paused for a beat before shoving them open, deciding as she crossed the threshold that she might as well tell him. Even if he didn't like it – and he wouldn't – there was nothing he could do about it anyway.

"Hey, Buffy!"

She slammed back to the present with a start. Willow was seated at the big center table, a stack of books at her elbow, and she was waving furiously in Buffy's direction. Buffy smiled at her, "Hey, Wil."

Xander sprung up from his chair behind Willow, as if only just noticing she'd come in. "Buffy!" he exclaimed. "You're back, from changing. You look, uhm... You wanna sit down? Plenty of chairs."

"No, thanks," she said, setting her clothes on the counter to her right. "What're you guys doing here? I thought we were meeting up after training."

"Xander needed some help with the math," Willow said. "We decided to just do it here while we wait – if that's okay?"

"Sure," she shrugged. "Where's Giles?"

Willow glanced right, toward his office, just as Giles himself emerged. "Buffy," he said in greeting.

"Giles," she said.

He looked her over for a moment, then glanced in the general direction of Willow and Xander. If he wanted to comment on them being there, he apparently decided to keep it to himself, as when he turned back to her, it was to say, "You're ready to get started?"

She nodded, "Let's rock'n'roll."

"Right," he pursed his lips, but said nothing further as he walked past her to the book cage, where she'd found out yesterday he was hiding a cache of exercise equipment, several swords, and something that looked like a short spear with an axe for a head. A halberd, he'd told her. He hadn't really explained why he had it though, or, more specifically, why it was _here_.

Part of her was almost hoping he was going to bring it out for her to try, but instead he emerged with a wooden dummy, a roll of bandages, two water bottles, and an earnest expression on his face.

"I put it together myself," he said, wheeling it to a stop a couple feet from where she stood.

Something sarcastic bubbled to her lips. She swallowed it. "What do you want me to do with it?" she asked instead, all innocence.

"Hit it."

Her brow lifted. A real blow from her would probably break his handiwork in half, but she decided not to point that out as she took the bandages from him and began wrapping her knuckles. Somewhere in the background, she could hear Willow chastising Xander for his functions. It seemed almost surreal to her that they could even think about something as mundane as math a few scant yards from a small medieval armory, a Watcher, and a Slayer. She certainly barely could.

The bandages tied, Buffy began stretching lightly. She noticed as she rolled her shoulders that there was a face drawn on the wooden head of the dummy, with shark teeth and thick, angry eyebrows. Giles was leaning against the book cage, watching her critically, and he looked so serious that it was almost hard for her to believe he'd drawn the dumb little doodle. She wondered if she asked if he'd even admit to doing it, but she kept the question to herself as she raised her arms.

Taking her cue, Giles began instructing her on her drill. It was similar to Merrick's, so she fell into pattern easily, though she cut back on the power, just barely glancing Giles' stick man to spare both it and the Watcher's feelings.

Giles noticed on his second slow circle around her. "You're not hitting hard enough," he said.

"You don't want me to," she replied automatically.

He looked so annoyed for a moment she stopped tapping the dummy and dropped her arms.

"I thought you were serious about this, Buffy," he said.

Several indignant responses flashed through her head, but all she said was, "Fine." Falling back into center position, she suspended her thoughts and let instinct take over. Her fists flashed forward, and with the first strike she felt the slightest nip of pain in her knuckles, with the second she felt less, and by the third she felt nothing. The wood cracked on her fourth hit, and without thinking she performed a heavy roundhouse kick, landing it right in the center of that stupid, little face.

The makeshift torso split off and slammed back into the book cage with a _clang!_, and she lowered her fists, looking at Giles. Heat was coursing through her blood, and it felt so good she almost ached. She'd forgotten how much she missed this. She'd forgotten how much she wanted to hit something, how damned _angry_ she was.

She stood there looking at him, but neither of them said anything. The room had gone silent. She realized after a beat that Willow and Xander had stopped talking, and they were both staring at her with expressions she didn't want to identify. Suddenly, she felt embarrassed, and the anger drained away as quickly as it had sparked.

"Sorry," she murmured.

Giles looked embarrassed too. "No," he said. He rubbed the back of his neck, then walked over to the sad remains of the dummy. He picked it up and looked at it for a second, then looked back at her. "I, uh, have some padding, I'll just get that and we can..." his voice trailed off as he disappeared behind the book cage.

Part of her wanted to apologize when he came back out holding a pile of large pads, but the rest of her didn't. He'd asked her to hit it, and she'd hit it. It wasn't her fault it hadn't been strong enough. So she kept silent, and, instead, offered to relieve him of his burden.

It took her a moment to realize what the pads were for. "You want me to hit you?" she asked incredulously, shifting the load in her arms. After what she'd done to the dummy?

"Yes," he said, grabbing a pad from her. "Help me, would you?"

Brave, old, British bastard – she'd give him that much.

She helped velcro him up, all the while uncomfortably aware that Willow and Xander had both stopped what they'd come to do to watch them. Then again, she realized as she tightened a pad over Giles' tweed-covered arm, this may have been what they'd actually come to watch from the start.

She pushed the thought away as she stepped away from Giles. He looked like a hockey player. Like a really old, really British hockey player who didn't know what he was doing.

She wished she hadn't broken the dummy.

"You're sure about this?" she asked.

He shifted, with what looked like slight difficulty. "Yes."

She took up center position again, eying him grimly.

"Not so hard," he said suddenly.

"Yeah," she nodded.

When she hit him, it was at half power, but she could still see him wince. To her surprise, when he opened his mouth to talk it was to give her instruction, not to tell her to stop. And so she hit him again, and again, again, again, keeping a heavy damper over that internal fire that she'd allowed to flare so briefly before.

And she kept on hitting him.

A thought popped into her head as he blocked her cross with a heavily padded arm. "Giles?" she said.

"What?" he grunted. He was sweating.

"What would you say if I were to try out for the cheerleading squad?"

"I'd say you should..." he inhaled, "give it more thought. Knees, Buffy."

She adjusted her stance, brows knitting. She wanted to ask him why. But then, she knew why: she'd _lived_ why.

She just didn't care.

Giles took six more hits before he finally held up his hands in an "I can't take anymore" sort of way. He was red as Hawaiian Punch, and she hastily moved to help him out of his pads.

"Very good, Buffy," he breathed after she'd helped him peel the chest piece off. He reached for his water bottle, then took a long, gasping drink. Buffy couldn't help but smile as she watched him – just a bit. She was barely warm, barely even tepid. "Want to take a few laps around the track, or the, uh..." he took another drink, "the pool?"

"Sure," she nodded, watching as he dropped into the seat across from Willow and Xander, who were both looking between Buffy, the Watcher, and the stack of discarded body pads almost bewilderedly.

It was silent for a beat.

"We'll, uh, wait here," Willow said, breaking it. "No hurry, 'cause, you know, we're not in any hurry."

"We've got math," Xander said.

"And stuff," Willow added.

"Math stuff."

Buffy snorted, then turned to go. "I'll be back," she said, and by the time she'd reached the door she'd broken into a slow jog. As she crossed the threshold she decided she'd given the cheerleading enough thought, that she was trying out, that she'd make it work, that she'd make all of it work, because she'd survived her first week, and she felt strong and young and _alive_.

Her footsteps echoed smartly off the halls as she ran full tilt for the pitch.


	32. Flammable

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 1789  
><em>_Setting: Witch_

Buffy took the walk back from Sunnydale High slowly, head lost in a dozen oscillating thoughts. Giles had offered her a lift after training, Willow and Xander had asked if she wanted to do anything later, but she'd politely declined both offers and set off alone down the street. Since her Calling, she'd gotten pretty good at being alone.

She hadn't made the squad, and she wasn't sure how she felt about that. It hadn't really occurred to her that she wouldn't make it, especially given the fact that the top line of her job description was physical prowess, and given she'd made the Hemery squad without any difficulty. She half wondered if her transcripts – a copy No-One-Calls-Me-Bob hadn't torn up, that is – had made it into circulation. But then, she realized, she was probably just being paranoid. Interest in her and her past had already faded. That was so last week.

Though if she was honest with herself, she was almost relieved with the decision. As annoying as it was, Giles was right in pointing out that sharing responsibility between the Slayage and extracurriculars wasn't realistic, and she knew he was right because she'd lived that experiment already. But that didn't stop the disappointment, the little blow to the chest when she'd realized her fantasies of being loved and accepted by the student body – as she'd been at Hemery – had been crushed up like a gum wrapper.

But she'd find another in, surely.

Her thoughts drifted back to Amber Grove as she crossed onto Hadley.

Giles was still on the combustion theory, but Buffy had a niggling suspicion that the fire was something done to rather than caused by the cheerleader. Willow's background check had turned up nothing, and though she knew from personal experience that weird, supernatural things could crop up out of nowhere, something about Amber, something about the timing felt off to her. That place on the squad would have been a cinch for her, no question, if not for the fire. And Amy...

The way she'd been looking at Amber...

Buffy shook her head, signaling a car to stop as she crossed to Rivello. Sometimes she saw vampires in the shadows of lampposts, sometimes demons squatting in park bushes. Everyone has a different reaction to scary things, and Amy was just a girl.

Then again, she was just a girl, or she had been anyway.

She didn't see her mom's car in the driveway when she reached her house, which wasn't surprising given it was still at least twenty to five. She fished her key her from bag, then unlocked the door and stepped inside.

The house was mostly put together now. They – and by "they" she meant her mom and her – had spent most of the weekend rearranging furniture and unpacking boxes. Dawn had mostly sat around the living room as they filled it and shifted it around, eyes glued to the TV, eventually migrating to the couch even as Buffy was still positioning it. Irritating as it had been, at least she'd stopped crying, and it wasn't as if her extra weight had made much of a difference to the Slayer.

But the peace felt nice. Coming in through the front door felt pretty good too, though she knew that tonight that wouldn't be how she'd be exiting or re-entering.

Dropping her bag at the foot of the stairs, she headed for the kitchen. The message light on the phone was blinking, and she absentmindedly hit the play button as she walked to the fridge.

_Hey, Joyce._

Her hand froze on the door handle.

_Calling to confirm dates. I got next Tuesday off, and I can take her to the show. Do you have plans for the weekend with her or do you want me to take her? I'll be home around six if you want to call._

_...End of message._

_You have no new messages._

_Beeeep._

Buffy turned to look at the phone, as if expecting to find her dad standing there instead. Of course, he wasn't, and as she stared at the silent machine she half felt as if she'd been privy to a conversation she hadn't been meant to hear, even though nothing in the message had been private or even particularly new to her.

It was her birthday next Tuesday, a week from now, and, in keeping with tradition, her dad was going to take her to an ice show. Her birthday happened to fall on the tail end of the winter skating season, and when she was ten or eleven she'd asked her parents to take her to see one for her birthday. After that they just kept going, year after year, though she didn't remember at what point it had turned into a father-daughter thing rather than a family thing.

The case of the flammable girl had temporarily driven all thought of her birthday out of her mind, but the message had reminded her how much she'd been looking forward to the brief jaunt away from Sunnydale, even if she was equally nervous about seeing her dad again. They'd spent only two weekends together since the divorce was finalized, and though he always had something for them to do and he always seemed happy to see her, and he always sounded happy to talk to her when he called, there was just...something between them.

She sighed, turning to reopen the fridge. Neither of her parents had had a real conversation with her about the split, and she wasn't exactly pressing for the details, but this would be the first time seeing him since the move to Sunnydale, and she didn't know what to think about that. If she should talk to him about it while she had him alone, away from Dawn and her mother.

Because she still wasn't sure. Not so deep down, she wasn't sure at all that it wasn't all because of her and the gym and New Horizons.

She stared blankly at an unopened water bottle, suddenly forgetting what she wanted with it.

She didn't know how long she'd been standing there when she heard the door slam behind her.

"Buffy!" her mom called. "I'm back."

The stomping of feet up the hall stairs told Buffy her sister was back too, and the distant slam of a door all but confirmed it.

"Hey, Mom," she said as her mother walked in.

Joyce looked at her as she set her purse down. "I noticed you didn't lock the door again."

She smiled sheepishly at her, "I didn't think about it." And she hadn't for awhile now, not since she'd become the Slayer really.

"I don't know how many times I have to remind you. Lock the door when you're home alone."

"Noted." She shut the fridge door and walked closer to her. Her mother had pulled a bundle of envelopes from her purse and was sorting through them, brows dipped. "What're those?" she asked.

Joyce looked up. "A couple bills for whoever lived here before. Some letters."

"Oh," she said, sensing that this particular conversational well contained all the depth of a teaspoon. "So," she said, switching tracks, wanting to get it out sooner rather than later, "The cheerleader list was put out. You know, who made the team."

"Oh?" She tore open a letter. "What position did you get?"

"I, uh, didn't." She paused when her mother looked at her. "Get one, I mean."

She studied her for a beat, expression unreadable. "Why not?" she asked after a protracted second.

"I don't know," she replied honestly. "There was a lot of competition. I guess they thought the other girls were better or something. They're all really good."

Joyce took her hand and squeezed it. "I'm sorry, honey, I know you were hoping to get on the team."

Yeah, she knew. Buffy pushed away the annoyance she'd been harboring since yesterday. "Dad called," she said, changing to subject again.

"He did?" her mother pulled away from her and went back to sorting.

Buffy wondered privately if she was conscious she'd done that, but didn't comment. She relayed his message instead.

"Thanks, honey," Joyce said when she was finished. "I'll call him later – unless you want to?"

She shifted uncomfortably. "You can, or I can, if you want."

"It's up to you." She set the letters down and turned to her, leaning against the counter.

Suddenly she wished she had something in her hands to mess with, and she remembered the water bottle she'd forgotten to reach for, but made no move to get it. "Yeah, I'll call him." She didn't know why the prospect seemed daunting, and she supposed it wasn't, in the scheme of things. She laid her hands flat against her sides. "Hey, Mom, we have plans for my birthday, right?"

She shifted some hair behind her ear. "I was thinking of taking you to the mall Sunday. We can do a cake here or go out, it's up to you. Did you want to invite your new friends?"

Buffy shifted again. The thought had occurred, but for whatever reason she hadn't gotten around to asking Willow and Xander yet. "Yeah," she said. "I'll ask them."

"Good," Joyce reached over and squeezed her shoulder. "I'm glad you've already made friends. At least one of my daughters is settling in."

Buffy jumped on that conversational boat, which promised to be sailing away from the subject of her. "Dawn's still not adjusting?"

She leaned back against the counter again and crossed her arms. "Apparently she called the teacher a poopface when she thought she couldn't hear."

Buffy snorted. Her parents accused her of being sullen and difficult, but as far as she was concerned, she had nothing on her sister.

"She's sulking now," her mother continued. "Sure you heard the door."

"So that's what that was," she replied dryly.

"Mm," she nodded.

They stood there for a moment, saying nothing, and eventually Buffy broke the silence. "I'm gonna go upstairs," she said, gesturing in that general direction.

"Oh," Joyce said. "Okay."

Another awkward moment passed, and then Buffy left, grabbing her bag at the foot of the stairs when she reached it before heading up to her bedroom. Dawn's room was silent, the door closed, and Buffy passed it on her way to her room, where she dropped the bag a second before dropping herself onto the bed. Laying back, she stared at the popcorn ceiling, thinking about her birthday and combustible cheerleaders and her parents and the water she should've grabbed from the fridge.

And she closed her eyes.


	33. Rooted

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 1399  
><em>_Setting: Witch_

Buffy didn't think about it. She just jumped – from the car trunk to the street, straight into Cordelia. The impact sent them both tumbling, and they landed hard on the blacktop a mere micrometer from the truck as it rushed past.

Buffy pulled herself up, heart in her throat, blood roaring in her ears. "It's okay," she murmured, to herself or her charge, she didn't know. She said it again, even as she realized Cordelia was saying something, but when she looked at her any further reassurances died on her lips. "Oh, God," she said.

Cordelia's irises were gone, whited over. "What's happening?" She stared at her blindly, blinking. "I can't see anything."

Buffy just sat there, thoughts halted, like they'd been caught in a red light somewhere in the back of her brain.

"Where am I?" Cordelia's voice was strained, near hysterical. "Who's there? Why can't I see anything? What did you do to me?"

Buffy found her voice. "It's okay," she managed. "It's Buffy. Everything's fine, just..." she rolled to the balls of her feet. "Let me help you up."

She took Cordelia's arm, even as the prima donna's brows knit over her sightless eyes. "Buffy?" She allowed her to pull her to her feet, staring at a point somewhere over Buffy's shoulder. "Why're, what did you—"

"Cordelia!" the driver's ed teacher was jogging across the street. "Are you alright? Everything's fine? Who are you?" The teacher looked at her.

Buffy let go of Cordelia's arm, taking a half step back. The teacher was looking at her as if mushrooms had just burst forth from her skull. "I'm Buffy," she said. "Buffy Sum—"

"Who cares?" Cordelia cut in, hysterical now. "_What happened to my eyes?_"

The teacher looked at her and started. "Jesus," he said.

"_What?!_"

"Let's, uh... let's get you to the nurse's..." he looked at Buffy. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she said.

The teacher looked between them once again, then hesitantly reached for Cordelia. "Cordelia, can you see me? Are you okay to—"

"_No, I'm not okay to! Where have you been for the last minute?_"

"I'll, uh, lead you, come on." The teacher took her arm, and Cordelia followed him as they crossed the street again, moaning about her eyes. _I can't see anything. What happened to me?_

Buffy watched them go, rooted to the spot, though whether it was because of the near death or Cordelia's sudden blindness she didn't know. Her heart was stilling pounding, muscles still hot from the adrenaline, but her focus drifted from herself as she realized that half the student body seemed to be gathered where the fence had been five minutes ago, and most of them were staring at her.

Hastily, she readjusted her overshirt on her shoulder. They had the same look on their faces that the teacher had, like she was some bizarre anomaly that had suddenly appeared among them, and it almost scared her, even as she felt the familiarity of it. Just like when she'd put out Amber, like Hemery after Lothos and the fire.

Taking a breath, she walked to them, keeping her head up even as she avoided their eyes. She'd made it halfway across the street when she heard her name.

"Buffy? Buffy, is that you?"

She looked around as the crowd parted a little, and out popped Willow. Predictably, Xander appeared a moment later, and he looked from her to the torn bushes and the broken fencing, confused.

Buffy realized she'd stopped in the street at their entrance, and she resumed moving again, walking quickly to meet them. To her relief, the crowd had begun breaking up at her friends' arrival, and by the time she reached them most of the students had dissipated back into campus.

"What happened?" Xander asked. "Was that Cordelia with Mr. Pole? Why is there – isn't that the driver's ed car?"

Buffy nodded, then shook her head, shifting loose strands of hair behind her ear. "I don't know. I followed Cordelia out here. When she got behind the wheel she totally wigged or something, went through the fence." She made a gesture at where the fence had been, where they were standing.

"But how did you end up over there?" he asked, pointing to the other side of the street. "I heard somebody say something about a girl jumping in front of a truck?"

She glanced back. "When the car stopped she got out, and then she was just...standing there, in front of the truck and it wasn't stopping. I had to tackle her out of the way."

And all at once they had _that_ look too. Buffy wanted to tell them it wasn't that big of a deal, what she'd done, but Xander spoke before she could.

"Man, you really are like a superhero," he whistled.

"You alright?" Willow asked.

"Yeah," Buffy said, then changed the subject. "But Cordelia's not. She's blind."

"Blind?" Willow repeated. "Like, blind, blind?"

"See no evil," she replied, then started forward. "I have to talk to Giles."

They immediately moved to follow.

"So she just went blind?" Xander asked. "Spontaneously? Is that a thing?"

"No," Buffy shook her head. "No, this is weird. Amber weird."

Willow caught her drift. "So you don't think what happened to Amber is something she did, to herself I mean?"

"No," she said, but didn't state the tail end of her thought. There were two common denominators between Amber and Cordelia – they were both cheerleaders, and Amy hated them. The more she thought about it, the more she couldn't shake the look Amy had given Amber, and the more she wondered if she'd done the same to Cordelia. All at once she wondered if Amy was here, had been there for the accident, but when she looked around she didn't see her. Then again, that didn't matter. She could've left afterward, slipped away into the crowd.

But if it was her, what was she? She didn't scream demon, but, then, not all demons were sludge-monsters, or fin-monsters with severe dermatological problems – at least as far as she knew. But she certainly hadn't seen everything, especially not anything spawned from the Hellmouth. But Giles probably knew.

For the first time in awhile, she was glad to have a Watcher again, to have someone she could turn to for an answer when something like this happened. When things got weird and confusing.

They passed the fountain and reached the door in silence. Buffy noticed several students get quiet when they entered the building, but she ignored them.

Xander didn't. "Is it just me?" he murmured.

"Nope," Buffy said matter-of-factly, sick of the attention, sick of the looks. She wished she hadn't given Pole her name. She didn't want this getting back to the teachers, or her mother for that matter.

Apparently he sensed her tone, because he said no further. But she kept thinking about it, and as they rounded the corner her concern bubbled to her lips. "Look," she said quietly, "I know you guys've said you're okay with the..." she glanced around before saying it, "Slayage, but the rest of it. Eventually it won't just be me they're looking at."

Xander put up his hands, "It's cool, Buffy."

"Yeah," Willow said. "It's not like we were paragons of popularity before. There's nothing to damage control."

She studied them for a beat, glancing between them. Something that felt like gratitude filled her, but she wasn't sure how to express it. The fact that they still stood beside her, even as everyone was staring, that they were walking with her to talk to Giles, so, at least in part, she wouldn't have to face it all alone. It felt good, and safe.

"Thanks," was all she said.

"Please," Willow said. "There's been more excitement in the past two weeks than in the past... well, ever."

"Hm." They'd reached the library doors, and Buffy paused for a moment. "Well," she said, shoving them both open, "hopefully we'll figure out how to solve that right now."

She only hoped she was right as Giles looked up from his seat at the center table to meet her eyes, but, somehow, she knew that'd be too much to hope for.


	34. Mothballs

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 1702  
><em>_Setting: Witch_

They left her on the couch. It smelled like moth balls and chocolate and burned sage and the incense in that corner shop she used to shop for jewelry in back in LA, and the room was spinning round and round, and she knew if she moved her head was going to fall off and roll away, and it would stop under a table somewhere, and her blood was on fire but she couldn't move anymore, and everything stank of sage, and she knew she was dying but it was getting harder and harder to remember why. Everything was running like sand through a sieve, her thoughts collecting like rocks along the netting as everything else washed away.

_Amy wasn't the witch. It was her mother._

_Her mother stole her body, switched it like a coat._

_Amy's been here for months._

_Her mother was trying to kill her._

_She would die, she was going to die, right here on this couch, after Lothos, after everything._

She wanted to cry, but she couldn't cry. She'd figured it out, realized it was Amy talking to them, that it'd been Catherine the Once Great she'd been trying to comfort, whom she'd suspected of witchcraft, whom she'd sent Willow and Xander to monitor. But it'd taken her too long. Why hadn't she seen it sooner?

She was the Slayer. A _Vampire_ Slayer. Killed by a witch.

_Here lies Buffy. Misread her job description._

Or had she? What if she'd done nothing? Would Amber be dead? Cordelia? Wasn't it her job to protect the innocent, or whatever Merrick used to tell her?

But Merrick was dead. He'd been dead a long time.

Something brought her back to reality. It took a second for her to hear it.

Distant clomping. Louder, louder.

_Giles_.

She opened her eyes, even though she didn't remember closing them, and the world whirled and spun and danced. A big blob moved in front of her, a big mass of tweed and book musk. Giles.

"Did we find?" she heard herself asking.

"We found," he replied. He sounded like he was a million miles away, but then he was pulling her up, and she found her footing but at some point it had turned to jelly. Something inside her was screaming, like there was a demon in her blood, eating it and breathing it, and then she was being lifted and someone was talking but she wasn't listening because the demon was howling in her ears. Or was it blood? Or was it both?

Giles was holding her. But she was the Slayer. If it was her job to protect him than why was he protecting her?

He looked scared when she looked up at him, but his face swam in the sun and the sky. They were outside?

What would Giles tell her mother? Would Giles tell her mother? And wasn't there someone else? A sister... did she have a sister?

She had a sister?

She was being set down. Somehow she made the connection – Giles' ugly, rust bucket car. She was on the back seat. The leather was cold on her skin, and it felt good on her cheeks. She was on fire.

She closed her eyes again as the engine hummed. The demon in her blood was still roaring, but the humming was louder, louder, louder...

And she was _hot_...

And all at once it was dark, and the air was frigid. Candelabras pierced the black with little ribbons of flame. Some of the candles had burned to nubs, the wax having spilled down the iron and hardened in lumps and drops all along the candle bases.

She couldn't see herself in the dark, couldn't see her hand in front of her face. She was gripping something so hard her fingers felt numb, and she was terrified. She couldn't remember what had brought her here, but she knew she'd never leave. She'd spend the rest of forever down in the dark, down under the dirt, watching the candles burn further and further down, waiting until the day the last one went out.

It was freezing. Her shoes slipped over bones and rotten corpses. She could feel flies pinballing off her body, but she couldn't see them. And god but it stank.

The toe of her shoe hit something wet, and when she looked down she could just make out water reflecting the candlelight. The pool was filthy, and it smelled like the corpses at her feet, but she took another step into it. The water bit into her ankles, then her shins when she took another step. Her dress was floating in the water, bone white in the dark.

She could see old, broken walls just beyond the candelight.

Up to her knees, her thighs. The water took her hungrily, eating away the fear and the pain. She'd dropped her weapon at some point, if she'd ever been carrying it, and she shivered as she took another step.

Someone else was in the pool.

He'd drawn her to it.

"Buffy," he said.

She took another step.

"Buffy," he said again, more insistent this time.

The water was at her chest. She knew she would drown. He was going to drown her. He needed her to die, so she would die for him. She couldn't stop herself. She took another step.

"Wake up! Buffy!"

Her eyes flicked open, then closed again when light pierced her vision. The sun? Outside, she was outside. The water was gone, the thing in it was gone, she wasn't underground, but why would she have thought that?

"Buffy!"

_Giles_.

"Mm," she murmured. She realized he was holding her again. Her limbs felt dead. Something in her blood was howling and whimpering, and it sounded like pain, but she didn't feel any. She didn't feel much of anything.

She could feel him carrying her, could sense the light change a couple times. He smelled like book musk and cloves. The moth balls were gone.

Moth balls? When were there moth balls?

What happened to the dark?

Weren't there candles?

"Stay with me," talking again. Giles. "We've got the book. Not too much longer, don't you worry."

Of course he had the book. That was all Giles had. Thousands upon thousands of books, all built up and stacked together. Why should she be worried? He would always have his books.

She opened her eyes when the lighting changed again, when it got dark.

There was a woman following them.

_The witch._

_No, Amy was the witch? No, she was Amy._

_Body switch. Freaky Friday, like Jodie Foster. Or was that Silence of the Lambs? Wasn't it Thursday?_

_Wait, if she was the witch, where was the broom and the talking cat?_

She closed her eyes.

She was being set down, on something hard.

"I'm going to stop this," someone said. Merrick. But when she opened her eyes again it was Giles. Giles was her Watcher. Merrick was dead. "I promise."

He was shoving something under her head, something soft.

"You just hang on," he said.

And then he was gone.

Something like fear uncoiled in her gut. She didn't want him to go. She didn't want to die alone. She'd promised herself she wouldn't die alone. It was her birthday next week. She'd never live to see it, never see the ice show. It wasn't fair. She'd promised herself she wouldn't die alone.

_But she wasn't going to die here._

_This wasn't where the water was._

Why would there be water?

She could still see him, Giles. He was chanting or something, pouring chemicals into a bubbling tub. She found she couldn't pay attention to what he was saying, or maybe she just couldn't understand him. The witch – _no, it was Amy, and Amy was her_ – was talking too. The room seemed darker than before.

Something was banging, banging, banging, banging...

She closed her eyes.

Something inside her whined and cried.

Someone was shouting.

But she was slipping.

Sand through a sieve.

Filth in the water.

Cold.

And then a bolt hit her.

The demon screamed, and her eyes popped open. The demon was screaming and screaming and her blood was hot again and she remembered she had fingers and arms and shoulders.

She pushed herself up. Blood was roaring in her ears.

Amy was standing there, a few feet away, a fireman's axe raised above her head. But it wasn't Amy, because Amy was Catherine, but as she pushed herself to the edge of the table she was sitting on, she thought that this time it may actually be Amy, that Giles had done the spell, that that was why she wasn't dead.

She slipped off the table, stood on her own feet.

"Buffy?" Amy asked, sounding small.

"Amy?" she said.

Then a truck hit her, and she hit the ground hard. Something above her shattered and banged as her head swam and her blood sang.

Whatever had hit her was off her now, and she realized it had been Catherine when she heard her talk. "You," she said, somewhere above. "You little brat."

She blinked hard as Amy said something back, her head slowly clearing.

"How dare you raise your hand to your mother? I gave you birth. I gave up my life so you could drag that worthless carcass around and call it living?"

Something banged.

She could feel sweet strength pouring into her limbs, and the heat felt so good it ached. The screaming had stopped. She felt _alive_.

"You've never been anything but trouble. I'm going to put you where you can't make trouble again."

She pushed to her feet, smiling. She felt punch drunk on adrenaline, like this morning, but real this time. "Guess what?" she said, and Catherine turned to face her. For the first time, she saw her clearly, just a few inches away. "I feel better."

And then she socked her, hard, demon strength uncoiling in her fist. Her blood was flame, and her heart was clear, and this was what she'd lived to do, because she was too strong to die.


	35. Schism

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 1695  
><em>_Setting: Witch_

They explained everything to Willow and Xander in the aftermath, on their way to the nurse's station to pick up an ice pack for Giles. As he'd reached into the freezer, the Watcher had remarked only half-jokingly that he would probably have to start keeping a stock in the library if trends continued, and Buffy had agreed, not quite so jokingly. When he'd suggested on their way out that they take the day off from training, she'd agreed again, her energy burst from before having more or less faded. Willow and Xander suggested a night out at the Bronze to celebrate their success, but Buffy had declined, wanting to get home.

And that's precisely where she'd went, to sleep until dinner. When she'd dragged herself out for patrol, she found nothing during the sweep, and she'd gratefully returned to her bed at just ten past three, passing out almost immediately. Turned out, dying or, almost dying – was pretty tiring.

She was fine by Friday's end.

Now it was Tuesday, and her birthday. She'd spent the weekend shopping and hanging with Willow and Xander, which was when she'd finally gotten around to mentioning her birthday. She'd also told them about her plans with her dad, that because of them she wasn't sure when they should get together.

Both of them had shown up with gifts this morning, "just in case" they didn't end up meeting tonight. She'd been surprised and more than a little grateful, having felt somewhat downhearted on her walk to school, thoughts lost in last year's birthday and everything that had changed since. This year there'd be no big group of friends, no skipping school to spend the day at Disneyland, no gossip-filled sleepover with cake and ice cream. She hadn't been in contact with anyone from her former life in LA since the expulsion, so she hadn't been surprised not to receive any well-wishes from her old friends, but the radio silence still hurt a little.

Willow and Xander had changed that, with their hand-wrapped, brightly colored presents, which they'd made her swear to hold off on opening. Even Giles had been in a giving spirit, though his gifts had lacked both the wrappings and the whimsy: a battered looking crossbow, and the night off from training and patrol. She'd accepted them happily all the same, and he'd even let her fire off a few rounds into an old box.

And she had to give him credit, he'd at least thought to stick a bow on the weapon, right smack on the bolt notch.

Now school was over, and she was making her way out of the building alone, having separated from her friends after class. Her stomach was a nest of butterflies, though she wasn't entirely sure why. When she joined the crowd streaming through the door and spotted her dad's car at the curb, they all seemed to take off, ping-ponging drunkenly around her guts even as some corner of her soul was flooded with relief.

Buffy let out a long breath, heading down the steps. If she was honest with herself, some part of her had been worried her dad wouldn't want to come up to the same county her mother occupied, that he'd put off their plans until the weekend so her mom could drive her down or something, even though she'd heard the message and talked to him about it on the phone a few times. She was glad he'd made it, and seeing him she realized all at once how much she'd missed him. She was smiling by the time she reached the car, and her dad left it to meet her and give her a hug.

"Hey, Dad," she said, hugging him back, taking care not to crush him. "I'm so glad you made it."

"Happy birthday, sweetie," he said into her hair. "I forgot how strong you are."

"Oh," she released him, and they smiled at each other. The butterflies had landed, but she was still feeling a little emotional.

"Well, hop in," he said. "I figure we can catch dinner before the show, at that Italian place you like?"

"Yeah," she said, and they both made to follow his suggestion. As she was buckling, a thought occurred, and she found herself asking as neutrally as possible, "You, uh, have a good time with mom?" He'd planned to be here several hours ago so he could meet up with her at the gallery, though she hadn't asked why.

"Yeah," he said, but didn't elaborate as he pulled away from the curb. "Picked up your sister too, took her to the gallery. It seems like she likes it here."

"Yeah," she replied, not sure if that was true. "Yeah, we both do."

"Good." He reached over and took her hand. "So how does it feel to be sweet sixteen?"

"Well," she was looking at the hand she wasn't holding, the one that didn't have a ring, "like fifteen, only older, and much more qualified to drive."

At that he looked at her, forcing her eyes away from his empty finger. "You still have six months."

"Hey, what's wrong with a little optimism?"

"Hmph," he exhaled, flicking the turn signal.

They chatted lightly about school and her friends and her birthday and his work as they rolled to and then down the 101. As they talked, it gradually became clear to Buffy how much they'd already missed in each other's lives, even though it hadn't been that long at all since the divorce and the move. It wasn't as if they'd necessarily had long, daily conversations about their lives before, but she could sense a new, uncomfortable distance there, and she wanted it gone. So she decided to talk it away, filling him in on everything in her life she was able to share, though it required omitting almost everything that was important.

When she ran out of things to say, she found herself thinking once again about how much she felt like she was living two lives, like Buffy Summers was someone she'd known a long time but was starting, gradually, to forget, even though she was all most of the people in her life knew.

Talk turned to Dawn and Sunnydale as they started hitting the LA traffic, but it dwindled quickly in the face of the wall of brake lights in front of them. Having grown up in the snarl, Buffy was more or less used to it, and she put her head back in her seat to wait it out. Her thoughts drifted as her dad fed the car a Rolling Stones CD, back to last night's patrol.

For the first time since the Harvest, she'd run into a vamp. He'd been skulking around outside the Sun, coasting no doubt for some hapless, unsuspecting victim on their way from the midnight showing, and after running through several possible approaches, she'd settled on just walking right up to him. The vamp had seemed almost giddy at what he must have considered his great luck, and she'd allowed him to lead her to some dark, secluded corner, a spot he'd no doubt spent the greater part of the night fantasizing about. He barely even seemed to have registered that he'd been duped up until the moment she'd rammed her stake through his heart.

After dusting herself off, she'd left the alley, then found herself stopping in the same place she'd found the vamp, to watch as a trickle of people left the theater. She'd wondered if she seemed as remote and irrelevant to them standing there as the vamp would have, but when someone caught her eye she had walked away, letting the thought go.

Now she was considering it again, as she sat in her dad's car, not talking about any of the things she really wanted to talk about, only acknowledging the half of her life she still wanted to believe was more important but had already been eaten so far away, as she ran her hands along the invisible wall that had been erected between her and her family since the day Merrick had thrust her fate atop her shoulders, and between her and her dad since she'd left New Horizons to find her parents had finally gone the direction she'd feared they would for the past few years. But mostly she felt the schism between Buffy Summers and the Slayer, and it scared her that she could feel it narrowing and filling in, even as the walls grew between her and everyone else.

Maybe the close call had shook her more than she thought. She still hadn't forgotten the sound of that thing screaming in her blood and her ears, and she still hadn't quite convinced herself that it'd been neither real nor alive. And the dream... that hadn't been the first time she'd dreamt her death down in that pit.

Slowly, she rotated a ring on her finger.

That hadn't been the first time she'd seen the Master either. She didn't know why she hadn't talked to Giles about it yet.

Then again, what could he do?

"Hey."

The darkness and distraction flew from her thoughts, peeled away like masking tape, and she realized the car was stopped, and her dad was looking at her oddly.

"Everything alright?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said, forcing a smile to her lips. "Yeah, I'm great. Are we here?" she looked away, out the window, and she recognized the lot. They were. "I'm starving."

"Well, let's go then," he said, popping open his door.

She followed suit, slamming shut the mental cage she'd somehow climbed inside for the past twenty minutes. It was her birthday, damnit, the one day out of the year where she was morally and legally obligated to think of herself and be happy about it. If Giles could give her the day off, then she was obviously going to take it with a smile.

Because god knew, if she was having the dreams she thought she was, she might not have another chance.


	36. Home

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 1557  
><em>_Setting: Witch_

The lamp shone gold and dull against the night. Buffy stared up at it as the car on the cross street passed, then looked away when they took their turn to accelerate. Home was a few blocks away.

It felt odd that Sunnydale was already "home" to her, despite her having just left LA a little over an hour ago. When they'd first made the move she'd thought she'd never get over the loss of her childhood home, never get used to some podunk town with a name that seemed as if it'd suit some equally podunk 60s show more than an all too real, mappable place, yet that was how she'd thought of it tonight, as they'd coasted down a few of the streets she'd seen almost every day just a few weeks ago. And when they'd turned away from LA and made their way back to the 101, some tiny part of her hadn't been entirely unhappy about it.

She wasn't sure what to think about it, that she thought of the Hellmouth as "home."

"I'm sorry, honey."

Her mother's voice broke her thoughts, and she looked over to her, hitting the playback button. "For what?" she said after a beat.

Joyce looked away from the road to meet her eyes, "For...everything. I know your sweet sixteen hasn't been particularly sweet. Are you okay?"

She looked at her, slightly taken aback. "Yeah," she said, swallowing, though she wasn't entirely sure how honest she was being. "Yeah, I'm fine with it."

"Last year I remember you talking about how big you wanted your party to be. I'm sorry I couldn't afford to take you anywhere better than the mall, with the new house and all the moving costs and the gallery. I hope this hasn't been your worst birthday ever."

In truth, it was, by a landslide as long as a country mile, with current events being what they were. Buffy wasn't about to admit that though. "I know, Mom," she said instead. "You're doing the best you can, and I'm fine. Really."

"I'm glad you had a good time with your father at least." She flicked her turn signal and slowed to a rolling stop before turning. "I know you were both looking forward to going to the show."

"Yeah, it was a lot of fun." That at least she could be honest about. For those few, scant hours in her ringside seat, the Slayer had fallen away from Buffy Summers, leaving her free to enjoy that same, familiar enchantment she'd been feeling every year since she was a kid. She'd been lost in the costumes and the dancing and the music, not feeling the cold, for once not sparing a thought for demons and death, for Watchers and vampires and Hemery and the Hellmouth and her strange, disturbing dreams. She'd been free.

But then the show had ended, and then they'd gone back to her dad's crappy little Glendale apartment to split the small ice cream cake he'd bought for her, and reality had come rushing back, as if life was returning to high tide.

"Maybe we could see a movie or something," her mom was saying. "Or we could rent one. I could make those brownies you like, the ones neither of us should be eating. We could split an entire carton of spumoni with it."

"Yeah," Buffy said. "I'd like that."

"I would too."

She watched her mom as she slowed and pulled into their driveway, and when they stopped, she finally said, "You don't have to feel guilty, Mom."

She killed the engine and hit the locks. "I know."

"But you are anyway."

"I am." She smiled softly at her, then reached over and smoothed some hair behind her ear. "But I can't help it, Buffy, I love you."

Something hot blew through her chest. "I love you too, Mom."

They might've hugged then, if they hadn't been in the car. Instead, they unbuckled and got out.

"I did do something though," Joyce said as they made their way to the front steps. "Since I was feeling guilty."

Buffy stopped, curiosity peaked, spirits punched up just a bit. "You did?"

"Yeah," she smiled. "Go open the door."

Suddenly, absurdly, she thought a car must be parked in the living room, but she shot that down immediately, since it was ridiculous. Feeling a little jolt of excitement, she trotted up the steps and opened the door, realizing as she did it that it should've been locked.

There were balloons all over the foyer, and the TV was on, and in the dining room there was a little stack of presents. She moved automatically to investigate the latter.

"Hey, it's birthday Buff."

She froze, the voice clicking, and she whirled to find Willow and Xander smiling at her from the couch. They were both wearing party cones.

"Hi!" Xander said, grinning. "You like the decorations? I did them—"

"_We_ did them," Willow cut in.

"...myself."

"_Our_selves."

They both got up.

Buffy walked into the living room, smiling like an idiot. Suddenly the night didn't seem quite so lost. "What're you guys doing here?"

"Your mom called," Willow said. "She said we should come over. Oh, uh, we got you..." she turned, looking at the couch. "Where's the thing?"

"What thing?" Xander looked at her.

"The thing, you know, the ha— oh." She shifted a pillow aside, to produce a cone more sparkly and iridescent than they ones they bore, then turned back. "Here. You want me to— here, you can put it on."

Snorting, Buffy reached for it, then put the thing on her head, pulling the strap taunt under her chin. "Thank you."

"I wasn't sure what you'd like," Willow said. "I mean, Xander and I usually just get a cake or something, and then we eat it... well, obviously. I mean, we don't really do anything. I figured you'd want to do something though."

"This is great," Buffy said, meaning it. "Thank you guys." Impulsively, she moved in to give them a hug, and for a moment they all clumped together, and suddenly the world didn't seem quite so harsh and sad and lonely. She almost could've cried then, but she quickly threw that secondary impulse off a cliff, recovering before they separated.

"I made a cake," her mom's voice attracted her attention, and she turned to find her standing in the doorway, smiling. She'd found a cone too: bright purple. "I know you already had cake, but it's your birthday."

"Cake with a side of cake," she said, grinning. "Who's in?"

Everyone was, and they all quickly relocated to the dining room as her mother went upstairs to get Dawn. When her sister finally came, she stopped on the stairs on spotting the strangers, and Buffy quickly made introductions as Joyce coaxed her in.

"Hey, Dawn," Xander said as she eyed him suspiciously. "Dawnie? Dawnster?"

"Want a hat?" Willow was up from her seat in an instant. "I got like eight of them – I couldn't decide. A pink one and a green one and...another green one, but it's a different color, and—"

"I like green," Dawn cut in, walking over to her. "Pink is for little girls."

"I like green too." Her own cone was a flaming orange – like a pylon _sans_ the white stripe.

Dawn accepted the cone, putting it on as she took a seat at the far end of the table. "Dad's not here?" she looked at Buffy.

Buffy glanced away, seeing her friends' smiles falter out of the corner of her eye. "No," she said, clearing her throat. "No, uh, he's in LA."

"But it's your birthday," she said. "And he was here earlier."

"I know." She wanted her to drop it. "I already had my birthday with him."

"But your birthday's _here_."

"Dawn—"

The lights went out.

Buffy jolted from her seat, arms raised, blood up in an instant. Just as she made to move protectively in front of her family, she spotted the lights in the kitchen, and then her mother. She made the connection just as she heard her voice.

"_Happy birthday to you..."_

Cake. Candles. Birthday.

"_Happy birthday to you."_

She retook her seat as her friends joined in the awful, embarrassing chorus.

"_Happy birthday to Buffy—"_

"_You look like a monkey..." _Dawn sang over them.

"_Happy birthday to—"_

"_And you smell like one too."_

The flaming cake was set in front of her. She could smell the smoke and the sugar, could feel her heart slowing down, could feel her cheeks burning – though whether it was from the singing or her overreaction, she didn't know. She was glad it was dark.

"Make a wish, Buffy," her mother said.

Buffy looked at the cake. And looked at it. Felt her pulse in her ear. Quelled a hundred fragmented thoughts.

And blew all the candles out.


	37. Apple Strudel

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 2200  
><em>_Setting: Teacher's Pet_

Another day, another earth-shattering catastrophe. Her birthday – her last day off – seemed like a million years ago already, even though it'd only been a week, and Buffy found herself longing for the warmth and comfort of her bed as she trudged down the gravel road. She'd left her room and her homework half-finished at a quarter past eleven, and though by now it was midnight at least, she had a sinking suspicion that she wouldn't be getting home until three or five or...daybreak.

It was cold out tonight. And she was kind of hungry.

She pulled her beanie a little further over her ears.

The only consolation she could take was that she wasn't trudging alone. Giles had been by her side since he'd picked her up a block from her house, rambling about the latest demonathing and some new book he'd gotten from a Watcher in Wales and the new training dummy he was having built for her. Though she was only half-listening to him, she was finding his presence oddly comforting. Merrick for the most part had never accompanied her on her patrols, and though she'd long since gotten used to being alone, she was almost a little glad for the company, especially since she still wasn't entirely clear on what she was facing tonight.

What she did know was that a couple saggy-skinned, spikey demons with a name that sounded vaguely like "apple strudel" had set up shop by the docks. A ship from up north had been attacked yesterday, leaving half the crew dead and, as it turned out, a few super secret crates missing. Some researcher in San Francisco had called this morning with the scoop. Though Giles had shared the details with her, Buffy had mostly glazed them over, focusing only on the main points: the demons had the goods, so the demons needed slaying and the goods needed recovery. What the goods were and what the apple strudels wanted with them...well, that she was less clear on.

Whatever it was, it was probably evil though. To be honest, the motives that drove the various forces of darkness were starting to blur together. A jar of magic dust and a Kmart candle were apparently all that was needed to jumpstart the career of any evil doer-to-be, upping them straight from ignorable to pain in her ass.

She readjusted the axe on her shoulder. She could feel the head of it bouncing lightly against her back with every step.

"Sure you don't want any tea?" Giles asked for the third time, holding up his jumbo thermos. "It's just, I— well, I made so much of it."

"I'm sure," she said. "Not big on the tea."

Giles took another sip, then tucked the thermos into his tweedy pocket. For some reason, he was still wearing the suit. "Is this your first time facing a non-vampire?" he asked.

She looked over at him. "No," she said. "No, I've slayed a few demons in my time." She thought back to the first ones, the sludge-monsters with the tiny hands and the ooky, green blood. And then she thought about Hemery again, and about Merrick. "Fat ones, skinny ones," she continued, to drag her thoughts away, "red ones, blue ones... a regular monster mash."

He looked at her for a moment, as if trying to gauge her sobriety. "I, uh, see," he said after a beat.

They stopped in front of a chain-link fence. Buffy could smell the ocean from where they stood, could just make out the forms of the boats moored along the dock. It seemed so still and peaceful, yet she knew that somewhere inside one of the dockside buildings, there was probably a group of apple strudels chanting in a circle around a bunch of colored rocks.

Great, now she was really hungry.

"What about you?" she asked as she reached for the padlock securing the gate and casually broke the claw apart. "Slayed any demons in your time?"

"I, uh..." he hesitated, glancing away from her, then just let it hang there.

"Giles," she said in surprise. She'd assumed from the start that her new Watcher had all the street experience of the average toy poodle, yet his look – or lack thereof – told her otherwise. "Wow. Never would've thought you had it in you."

His only response was to grunt and pull off his glasses. She watched him polish them for a second, then turned and swung open the gate, wondering as she did if she believed what she'd said. She didn't remember much of the day she'd spent dying under the bloodstone curse, and what she did was largely fragmented and confusing, but she could almost still hear him shouting something, smell his potion, feel the power – _his_ power – smothering the room. And for everything she couldn't remember and didn't understand, she was certain that at that moment, as she'd been fading away on the table, gone had been the quavering, stuttering, stuffy, old librarian she'd been coming to know and like. He hadn't got stuck or confused, no nervous false starts, no hesitation. He'd known just what to do, and just how to do it.

She glanced at him again as they walked down the gravel path toward one of the warehouses. They hadn't talked about that day at all since it'd passed, and she'd been great with not revisiting it, but suddenly she found herself wondering if there wasn't something there that maybe they should discuss, beyond the whole near death thing. It wasn't too far out there to think that someone whose life was researching the occult had maybe done some dabbling, but she'd never gotten that read off Merrick, and less so Giles, if she was honest.

She wasn't even sure she believed her memory, as she watched him replace his glasses and pocket his hands in his ugly, tweed suit. It didn't seem like she was remembering the same guy.

"We're sure?" she asked before she could voice her thoughts. "About which warehouse?"

"O-Thirteen, yes, with any luck," he replied, oblivious. "According to Willow's research, it's been largely unused the past few months. The Eiri'spuli needed their privacy, and I doubt they went far to get it."

Right. They were spawning or something, needed the oceanside access.

She hoped they weren't _in_ the water already. She wasn't exactly equipped with wet suit and fins, and, as far as she could tell, Slayer power hadn't done much to improve her dive time – and she definitely wasn't interested in putting that theory to the test anytime soon.

Buffy glanced up at the warehouse as they approached it, shifting her axe again. Giles said the number aloud as she read it, "Twelve."

"Next one," she said. "Wil's directions were spot on. Someone deserves a cookie."

There was a pause. Then, "Indeed."

She snorted.

They moved to pass the building on its road side, where the going was darker but potentially safer. They'd made it halfway down the length when she spotted the numbers they were looking for on the next building, and it was then that she decided to voice her offer for the third time. "You know, Giles," she started, "it's really okay for you to stay here. I'll be fine alone."

"I know," he said again, and she heard the but before he said it. "But I feel haven't been accompanying you on your, uh, 'patrols' nearly enough, and tonight, when we face demons of unknown size and number, you should have your Watcher beside you."

She studied him, still unable to decide if his attitude came from a place of genuine concern or guilt, or if he just didn't trust her yet. "Well, figured I'd ask one more time before you lost the option." She stopped at the warehouse's edge, glancing back as he drew the sword he'd brought from the sheathe across his back. "You're absolutely positively sure you know what you're doing with that?" she asked, eying it.

"I'll have you know I was the best fencer at the Academy and the Council," he sniffed. "Cedric Hawtrey, Graham Parfit... not even Quentin Travers could hold a candle."

She didn't ask, instead hefting her axe from her shoulder to let it hang loosely at her side. "Just stay back."

She moved forward without waiting for a response, falling already into slay mode. Though the things in Giles' book hadn't looked terribly threatening, she knew that on-paper didn't always translate well to in-the-fleshy-ness, and she was wary of the spines and the teeth.

A pile of boxes gave her relatively easy access to a window, and she headed for them. "I'll open the door for you from the inside," she said to Giles, climbing up. "If I don't open the door, wait for my signal."

She could feel him looking at her as she hopped onto the next box. "Your signal?" he repeated. "What would—"

"You'll know," she said, far more grimly than necessary. Before he could reply, she gave the window a sharp shove. The latch securing it gave with a _crack_, and she opened it, trying to ignore the fishy smell as it washed over her in a sudden puff of air.

Somehow, she had a feeling they had the right place.

Sighing, she poked her head through to look for landing places and any sign of the apple strudels. Seeing neither, she retracted, then tossed her axe through. Not wanting to be separated from it for long, she moved immediately to follow, throwing out a simple "Wish me luck," before taking the leap.

The ground was hard where she landed, and as she got up she spotted her axe a few feet away. Dusting herself off, she went to retrieve it. The warehouse lights were on, though the light they gave was dull at best, and the place reeked of fish, like what she'd always imagined a chum bucket at the Monterey Bay Aquarium would smell like, and as she crept around the towering steel shelves, she couldn't help but find that the image of a bunch of chanting German pastries was fading. Her blood was up, senses somewhere around yellow alert, her breaths going low and slow and long.

It only took about three minutes to find the things, and it wasn't hard. She just had to follow her nose and the strange _click_-_clack_ sounds, which she could only assume was their language. There were five, four sitting and one lumbering, and they appeared to be passing around vials and bottles of what looked from her vantage like glowing, multi-colored sand. They were about dog-sized, with short, stumpy legs and long, clawed arms. Her main concern was the thing she'd spotted in Giles' book – the long spine along both fore and upper arm. Those particular lovelies looked a lot bigger and a lot pointier off the page.

After studying them a moment longer, she doubled back to get Giles, who she suspected was probably stationed outside the door, waiting to hear the sound of her scream or of her body crashing through a bunch of crates – which, to be honest, the latter probably wasn't too far outside the realm of possibilities for tonight.

Pushing away the thought, she flipped the lock and opened the door. As expected, Giles was standing just outside, and she filled him in on what she'd seen as he slipped inside, then proceeded to outline her plan: walk up, say hello, stab them to death, recover the vials, go to bed.

Giles wasn't completely cool with it, but, when pressed, he couldn't come up with anything better. Their skin was too thick and blubbery for projectiles – thus the axe and the lack of her shiny, new crossbow – and collapsing something on them would inevitable end up squashing the goods. So they went with her plan, or her lack of a plan, and when they approached the end of the shelf column where she'd done her reconnaissance before, she told him to stop and wait.

And then she stopped with him for a beat, steeling herself. She had more or less gotten used to walking up to vamps, but with demons she had a percentage the experience. When she stepped out, she felt like she was walking right within range of a bunch of rabid dogs on long, chain leashes, and her axe felt heavy and safe in her hand.

And then she was in the open, just walking right out. The lumbering one was the first to spot her, and then they all did, and she could hear a chorus of _clacks_ as she approached. None of them moved, and she came to a stop just a few yards away. Slayer and Slayees stared at each other for a long, protracted second.

It was all just so ridiculous, her life, even now, after everything.

Exhaling, she called a smile to her face. "Hello, I'm Buffy. I'll be your Slayer this evening."

And then she rushed them, still half-smiling, axe upraised and ready, and they scrambled to meet her.


	38. Cliffnotes

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 2599  
><em>_Setting: Teacher's Pet_

The Bronze was hopping, as it was most every night, especially when there was a live band. Neither Buffy nor Willow had heard of the group, and neither had felt like dancing, so shortly after coming in and getting their drinks – tea for Willow, coke for Buffy – they'd headed upstairs to escape the worst of the din.

Once they found a prospective booth, they both reached down to test the seats for stickiness or some other grossness. Finding it clear, Buffy dropped into her seat, and Willow followed suit shortly.

"Thanks again for the homework help, Wil," Buffy said.

"I'm just glad you were interested," she replied, smiling. "I mean, that you asked. It must be really hard to stay caught up, with everything."

She nodded, swallowing some coke. Giles had given her the afternoon off from training, given last night's festivities, and though before bio she'd been seriously considering taking a nap to make up for lost time, her chat with Dr. Gregory had inspired her to instead approach Willow after school to ask for homework help. Xander had declined the invite, so the two of them had headed to the library alone to catch her up, and they'd been together since. Buffy was feeling pretty good now, despite the lack of sleep and her throbbing midsection: everything but her reading for English was done and, for that, Willow had kindly offered to give her the cliffnotes in the morning.

"So tell me about last night," Willow said. "We never got the chance to talk about what happened with the Eiri'spuli."

She studied her a second, then, "I killed them all." Even as she said the words, she remembered that they weren't truly hers. Somebody had said that to her once...

"Come on, all the details," Willow cut through her thought stream, oblivious to it. "It's not every day you slay a horde of demons. Well," she inhaled, "you know, unless you're you."

At that, she snorted. "Well, Giles and I found the warehouse, thanks to your excellent directions, and then we found them." She leaned back, setting her coke down. "They reeked like week-old fish, so it wasn't that hard."

Willow was watching her intently, and she was surprised to realize that she was hanging on her every word. It suddenly occurred to her that the novelty of the world of the ooglie booglies had long since faded away; that, to some degree, vampires and demons had become just as mundane and expected and inevitable to her as finding a loaf of bread on her countertop.

So she went back to last night.

She remembered walking up to the demons, remembered Giles hiding away behind the shelving. She could hear their strange, sucking breaths through what looked like the blow hole on their foreheads, could see their gigantic teeth in their too-large jaws. And she remembered not being afraid, not much at all, as her blood flowed hot under her skin.

It was the one that had already been upright and lumbering that reached her first, galloping forward on all fours. She brought up her axe in time to meet a slash from its forearm spine, then ducked as its other arm went for her head. It shrieked when she came up with a vicious uppercut that sent its lower teeth through its snout, but just as it backed off, she was rammed in the side by a truck, and both she and it went tumbling. Her head cracked hard against the floor of a metal shelf.

"Buffy!" she heard as she blinked, trying to clear away the cotton that had suddenly filled her brain. Her eyes focused just as a spine materialized from the grey, heading straight for her head, and she rolled away as it _clanged_ against the shelf.

She saw immediately that she was no longer the center of attention, that two of the demons had looked Giles' way at his outburst. In the gloom, he looked pale as a corpse, broadsword raised in what seemed an inadequate defense, fencing pedigree or not. She stumbled to her feet, then ran for him, grabbing her axe from the floor as she went. She could hear one of them hot on her heels, but she didn't dare turn to look.

The fattest one had grabbed Giles' sword by the blade, and the Watcher was struggling to pull it from its grip as the thing swiped at him. Buffy leaped at it without a thought, aiming her axe at its head, and it went through with a sickening _crunch_. It dropped like an anvil, and she went down with it, still gripping the axe. Something was screeching, but it wasn't the lump she had landed on. As she pulled on the axe, she spotted one of the demons coming for her, and she glanced back to see Giles fighting two. She gave the axe a few desperate yanks, unsure which one to target, and then it finally ripped free, and the momentum sent her off the body as blood and brains and stink went everywhere.

She rolled to her feet just in time to see Giles and his sword go flying in opposite directions. "Giles!" she yelled, running to him. The demon she'd spotted a second ago was howling now, scrambling toward her, and this time she didn't have time to get the axe up before it reached her. It bulled into her, and all at once her stomach was on fire, white, hot, fire, and she yelled, punching wildly. Her fist hit something soft and wet, and suddenly she wasn't the only one screaming. The demon reared off her, roaring, and she rolled out from under it, one hand clutching her stomach. It was wet, and she knew she was bleeding, that it'd stabbed her, but she didn't have time for that; she needed to find her axe.

"Oh my god," Willow said, breaking through the recounting. "You didn't say anything. Why didn't you— Are you okay?" Her eyes were wide.

Buffy nodded, tapping the injury with two of her fingers. It throbbed, but not nearly so bad as at the start of school, or last night. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"You sure?" she asked. "I mean, you look fine, but...I guess you'd know."

"Trust me," she said. "A quick and speedy recovery is part of the benefit's package. Though," she scrunched her eyebrows, reaching for her coke, "I think that's really the sum of the benefit's package."

Willow leaned forward, tea forgotten on the table. "So then what happened?"

Buffy finished off her coke, trying to remember where she was.

Right. The shelf.

She had spotted a metal glint, the axe, but before she could run for it the demon was back on its feet. It stared at her with its remaining milk-white eye. The other was a ruined mess, bubbling with the same black blood that was coating her knuckles. It was keening, so loud it was piercing her ears, but before either could move to attack, something louder than it crashed and banged and shattered, and the floor jumped an inch in the air, and dust was everywhere, and they both looked around to find that one of the great metal shelves had come down.

"Giles!" she called automatically, forgetting the axe as she ran for it. She could hear the injured demon following, and she could feel her stomach bleeding and burning, but she ignored both as she leaped onto the shelf. "Giles!" she shouted again, fighting back panic. Where was he? "Giles!"

"Buffy!" Muffled. Eleven o'clock.

She switched direction, jumping over broken crates and boxes as she ran toward his voice. She stopped when she spotted him atop a neighboring shelf, one that hadn't gone down, huddled next to a box, and suddenly she realized how the shelf had come down to begin with.

"They're dead," he called down. "Or they bloody well better be."

She looked around, and within a moment she saw the pancaked demons a few yards from where she stood, under the shelf. There were two of them.

The sound of claws on metal attracted her attention, just as she heard Giles shout down a warning. The two remaining demons were coming toward her fast, and she looked around for a weapon. She found a broken bottle, and she picked it up and lobbed it at the closest one, the one whose eye she'd decimated. It shrieked anew when the glass exploded along its snout, and she quickly jumped off the shelf, wanting both to get onto solid ground and to draw them away from Giles. She ran full tilt for the place she thought she'd left her axe, avoiding the demons as they moved to intercept her. She could hear them scrambling after her, could feel her chest and her stomach and her everything burning from the exertion and the pain.

She saw the axe immediately when she reached the spot she'd so recently vacated, but by then they were so close she'd felt something brush her leg, and instead of stopping to reach for it, she aimed for it and rolled. One of the demons landed on top of her as she grabbed the handle, but she kicked it off, spun to her feet, and planted the steel through its ruined eye.

It screamed anew, louder than it ever had before, and her ears rang as it dropped. She didn't have time to try to free her weapon before the last demon was almost on top of her, trying to take off her head with its enormous teeth. She socked it hard, then again and again, three jabs and a heavy cross, and she caught a spine in her hand as it moved to stab her, then gave it a vicious twist. It snapped off in her fingers, and she flipped it and sent it through its upper jaw as it roared.

It backed away from her, shrieking and bleeding, and in the moment of respite, she yanked her axe from the dead demon. Letting out a yell herself, she cleaved the axe into its skull and let it go.

And suddenly it was silent.

Buffy stood there amongst the carnage, breathing hard, feeling high and immortal and untouchable.

And then she crumpled.

"You fainted?" Willow asked, staring at her.

"Yep," she replied, smiling at the not-funnyness and fingering her bottle. "I lost some blood, I guess. Not for very long though. I woke up in Giles' car." For the second time in two weeks. She stopped for a second, thinking about the worry she'd read in Giles' face, and the relief. That had been the only thing last night that had truly frightened her.

"Wow, I had no idea so much had happened," Willow leaned back in her seat, still staring at her. "I almost feel like we should've gone with you or something. You know, to help. Could we have helped?"

She looked at her. "No," she said. "I'm still not even sure Giles should have gone. Slaying is sort of a solo activity." She set her bottle down. "And, besides, you did help. You figured out where we needed to go."

She waved her hand, then smoothed back her hair. "Well, not really. I mean, all I did was a little research."

"You helped," she pressed. "It's important. Besides, it's dangerous. I wouldn't have wanted you getting hurt."

Willow studied her for a second, looking like she wanted to say something, but she didn't, reaching for her cup instead.

"What?" Buffy asked.

She looked up at her again, then lowered her tea. "It's just... I know it's been awhile now since you came here, but I guess I'm still not used to it, what you do."

She nodded, "If it makes you feel any better, it took me awhile too." Truth be told, she still wasn't sure how used to it she was, if she was even okay with it all. "I think I've just accepted it."

"You're so brave," she said, then colored. "I'm sorry, I've just never— I'm not very, well, you know..." she trailed off. "Do you ever get scared?"

She didn't reply for a moment. "Yeah," she said finally. "A lot, actually, but it gets easier."

They sat there quietly for a few beats, and the rock pounded between them. What had the band been called? Streamline? Superfun?

"I'm sorry if I killed the mood," Willow was the first to speak. "I didn't mean to be a downer or anything. Let's change the subject."

"Yeah," she said. "Let's. But first..." she pushed herself up, ignoring her midsection as it throbbed. "I need another drink. You want anything?"

"No," she shook her head. "I've got my tea; I'll stay here. You go ahead."

Buffy nodded, fingering the bills in her pocket, then turned to go. As she headed for the stairs, she thought back to Giles, his concerns and his apologies, the trip back to the library to pick up some bandages and to drop off the vials they'd recovered. She remembered how safe she'd felt, how glad for him she'd been. She couldn't imagine dragging herself home after that, waking up alone amongst the corpses, bleeding and filthy and hurting. She'd been so exhausted she'd ignored the risk and gone in through the front door instead of her bedroom window, shoved her clothes at the bottom of her laundry pile and collapsed on her bed, though she only managed to sleep a half an hour.

"Hey, Buff-ay."

She blinked, glancing around. She had reached the bar, and it took her a second to realize it had been that wierdo she sat next to in bio who'd called her name. Blayne Something. He was sitting next to another guy she didn't recognize.

"How's it hangin'?" he asked her, with the annoying casualness of a wannabe jock.

She ignored him, flagging down a barkeeper instead. When she came over, she ordered another coke.

"You're looking especially fine tonight."

She looked back over at Blayne and his bud again. They were looking at her like she was a dark chocolate truffle in a dessert case. There was a time not too long ago where she may've blushed and possibly put on pouty-flirty face, but that time had passed, and now the only impulse she felt was to punch one of them in the face.

That thought put a smile to her lips.

Blayne misread that. "Why don't you come on over here?"

"Oh, please," she said, then saw her coke had been set down. She grabbed it and popped the top off on the edge of the table.

"Or we could dance."

She looked him over, several possible responses popping into her head, each crueler than the last. She voiced none of them, instead settling on, "Goodbye, Blayne."

She could hear them sniggering as she walked away, and she couldn't stop an eye roll.

"Boys are idiots," she declared when she returned to Willow and her seat.

"Agreed," Willow replied. She was still holding her tea. "What are we talking about?"

"Eh, Blayne was hitting on me," she said, waving her hand.

"Really?" she laughed. "Just think if he knew what you'd been doing last night."

Yeah, just think if he knew, if anyone outside their little bubble knew.

She laughed, even though it hurt, even though it wasn't particularly funny.


	39. Hunter, Interrupted

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 1875  
><em>_Setting: Teacher's Pet_

_A/N: Some borrowed dialogue._

Weatherly Park. Closed to the general public after 10, but open to the homeless, hellspawn, and anyone who could climb a fence 24/7. Buffy had been here on a sweep a few weeks ago, and though then she'd been glad to find nothing, tonight she was hunting, vengeance humming in some corner of her soul. She didn't know if Fork Guy was truly responsible for Dr. Gregory's death, but some part of her didn't really care. She just wanted to kill something, wanted to bring some sort of justice to the man who'd expressed a faith in her she wasn't sure too many others in her life felt. That random act of kindness had lightened her otherwise crappy day, and it disturbed her that he'd died so soon after their conversation. Though she'd dismissed the possibility that she was somehow responsible for his death, timing or not, she couldn't seem to shake a little, niggling sense of guilt.

Because anything was possible. She could be, for all she knew.

She stopped outside the fence when she reached it, listening. Nothing seemed amiss, and the place looked just as dark and unwelcoming at it had the last time she'd been here. After a pause, she climbed it, dropped to the other side, then started off, her stake a hard lump in her pocket.

She hadn't told anyone about her plans for the night. Even though she was growing used to Giles, and she could feel herself starting to trust him like she'd once trusted Merrick, she hadn't been able to stop the impulse to hold back from him. Lying had become so natural to her now that she hadn't really thought about it.

She passed between some trees and glanced around, but saw nothing.

Besides, if she was honest, if there was any night for there to have been a need for her to tell him, it probably wasn't tonight. She would've been out hunting for Fork Guy regardless, given Angel's tip, and after the incident at the docks, she wasn't sure she would've wanted him here. He'd gotten lucky with the apple strudels, but she didn't want to be banking on luck. It had frightened her when that shelf had collapsed, when she didn't know where he was or what had happened to him, more than she'd openly admit. She didn't want anything happening to him, especially if it was in an effort to protect her. She didn't know if she could live with that.

"Shouldn't be out here at night, little lady."

She jumped near out of her skin, fists coming up.

"It's dangerous," the bum continued, oblivious, as he emerged from the gloom. He reeked of alcohol and cigarettes, and she glanced between him and his bagged bottle as he moved past. She didn't look back at him as he walked away, instead resuming her foliage scanning. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt threatened by another human being, though she couldn't help but think pre-Slayer Buffy would've been terrified right now.

Her attention caught on a pile of something on the ground, and she started forward again, breaking into a jog when she recognized it as human. She sunk to her knees beside the body, but she realized a moment later that it wasn't a body; that he was just another homeless guy, alive and sleeping.

She got back up. Resumed the hunt. Minutes passed. Five. Ten. She passed a hundred trees and a whole lot of nothing.

Maybe Fork Guy had moved on. This wasn't exactly prime monster territory, despite its residential proximity. Most seasoned vamps stayed away from the cemetery and the parks, preferring to nest somewhere with a few working electrical outlets and possibly a cable, or, failing that, somewhere underground. Then again, she couldn't imagine a vamp who'd cut off his own hand and replaced it with a fork cared too much for creature comforts. Maybe he'd found a little hole somewhere.

Or maybe...

She paused, spotting something that looked off about the bush in front of her. Because it wasn't a bush; it was a branch. And it was covering something. Starting forward again, she grabbed ahold of it and shifted it aside.

Aha, a sew—

Something leaped out at her, and she yelped, scrambling back. The thing took a swing at her, and she ducked, hearing something hard and metal sing over her head, and then she was back up and hitting it in the gut, then the back. It fell out into the moonlight, and it was then that she realized it was indeed Fork Guy, and then he swung at her again with his fork, which wasn't a fork at all, but a few giant claws. She delivered a hard backhand punch, hit him with a kick, then another punch, dodged, another kick. Her heart was a hard staccato in her ear.

He rushed her, and she swung him over her back, then quickly grabbed her stake from her coat as he landed. She went down with it pointed directly at his chest, but he rolled aside at the last moment, and her stake thumped harmlessly into the ground.

Damnit.

They scrambled back to their feet at the same time, and she kicked him again. He went rolling away. She'd dropped her stake.

"Hold it! Police!"

Her blood froze, and she whirled to see a flashlight and several dark figures just over the hill.

Oh, god, cops.

They were talking, but they hadn't spotted her or the vamp, though she realized when she turned back that it had already made a run for it. She glanced back to check the cops again, then moved to follow it, not sure as she did whether she was truly making chase or just running away. She could hear it crashing through the undergrowth, but it was moving faster than her in the dark. She didn't hear the cops anymore.

The thought of them spurred her on, and within a moment she'd spotted fencing, and then Claw Guy beyond it, on the other side. And another figure. A woman.

Shit.

She gripped the fence, unsure if she'd be able to get over it in time.

And then the woman turned. It was Natalie French, the sub bio teacher.

Buffy was about to launch herself over the fence when she heard the vamp hiss, and then to her amazement he was running away, and French was watching him go, calm as could be. Claw Guy lifted a sewer grate and disappeared within, and Buffy stared at French as she walked away as if absolutely nothing had happened, still holding her groceries.

She stood there, floored, for once at an utter loss. She'd seen some weird stuff during her time as the Slayer, but this was beyond weird. Why the hell would a guy with razors for a hand be afraid of a substitute teacher? He certainly hadn't been afraid of _her_, and she was the Slayer.

Then again, something was off about the woman. She'd sensed that from the start.

And this pretty much upped it from suspicion to holy-crappy-ness.

"Over here."

She started at the voice, realizing it was a cop and that he was close, too close for her to vault the fence. She started running again, along the fence, all thoughts of French melting away. She hadn't forgotten a second of her time with the LAPD. Suddenly she was a little scared. She wished she'd followed Claw Guy into the sewer. Him she could handle.

She didn't head deeper into the park, instead running just inside the tree line until she found concrete. She had yet to have an encounter with the Sunnydale PD, and she wanted to forestall that moment for as long as possible.

Checking around, she stepped out onto the concrete, eyes on the exit. She had kicked it back up to a run when a voice stopped her cold.

"Stop, police!"

A light hit her face, and then a cop emerged from the shadow of an entry pillar.

"What're you doing out here so late?" she asked her, looking her over. Her fingers were hovering just above her belt. She was wearing one of those hats.

"Was out for a run," Buffy said automatically, knowing she wouldn't buy it, heart hammering in her throat. She remembered Bennett and the hospital and the precinct, her parents' faces when they'd left her at New Horizons.

She was going to run.

"Really?" the cop said, stepping toward her. "A midnight run?"

"Yeah," she replied, tensing for the sprint. "Who doesn't like a moonlit park?"

"What's your name?" she took another step.

Instead of replying, Buffy flashed forward, aiming directly for the nearest pillar. She could hear the cop shouting something as she wall-jumped it, then vaulted over the top of the fence. She hit the ground hard, but she paused for barely a breath before flooring it, running full tilt for the other side of the street and the houses. Any sort of cover. She jumped over a picket fence and into a yard, then went over another fence and past a hedge, across another street. No one was pursuing her, but she couldn't seem to stop, every last nerve screaming for home.

She ran for a long time, half the town it seemed like, until she finally stopped, collapsing into a random street tree. Her house was a few blocks away, but she was out of breath, and her heart felt like it was going to explode in her chest. Her thoughts turned over in tandem with its beat.

She had made it. She hadn't been caught. She was safe.

Her brain snagged on the last word. Safe.

She kept repeating it to herself.

Safe. Safe. Safe.

Exhaling, she pushed off the tree, starting forward again at a normal person's pace. There were no sirens, no flashing lights. All was quiet and clear. She could feel her heart slow, could feel the heat slowly unfurling from her muscles.

By the time she'd reached her house, the panic had mostly faded away, though she made her way up to the roof a bit more hurriedly than perhaps she normally would. It wasn't until she'd finally climbed inside and shut her window that she felt completely secure again, and shortly thereafter she dropped heavily onto her bed, to stare blankly at the ceiling, to rewind the last half hour of her life, the chase and the flight.

And then she remembered French again, and Dr. Gregory.

If not Claw Guy, and she was pretty much convinced at this point that he was a check off the suspect column, then who had murdered him?

She kept seeing French's face through the fencing, the way she'd looked at the vamp like he was a fly in her potato salad and she wasn't going to bother with the swatter.

Could it be...?

If the Hellmouth could attract a body-swapping witch and a master vampire, a human-shaped demon wasn't exactly a shot from left field.

She closed her eyes. Let out a long breath. Wondered at what point she'd gone from Vampire Slayer to Mulder.

And she fell asleep.


	40. Waylaid

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 1435  
><em>_Setting: Teacher's Pet_

_A/N: One borrowed line._

"How are you today, Buffy?"

"Fine, you know. Good."

"Good?"

That wasn't the right response. She backtracked. "Well, I mean, given the circumstances. I'm good considering."

He just looked at her with his basset hound eyes, chin couched in his neck, glasses hanging off the edge of his nose. And Buffy looked right back at him, knowing exactly what he was doing. They'd used the silence trick on her half a hundred times at New Horizons, and if he thought he could crack her particular nut with limp-wristed pressure, she was almost tempted to sit here the rest of the day, just to prove something – though whether it would be to him or to herself, she didn't know.

He broke, finally. "So, Buffy, I read your file."

Who hadn't at this point? She exhaled but continued with the silence. She didn't have time for this. She hadn't managed to get a glimpse of Natalie French today – or Blayne Moll for that matter – and right now those precious minutes that could be spent observing her were being wasted here. She'd never in her life wanted to get to bio more, but, then again, she'd rather be anywhere than sitting across from yet another shrink. The sewer, for example. With Claw Guy. Ten Claw Guys. Or perhaps a dental office, having all her teeth pulled out one by one.

"What made you so angry?" he continued.

"Angry?" she repeated. The word triggered its matching emotion, and she could feel herself flush.

"You missed a lot of school," he said. "Have gotten into fights. If you don't mind the observation, I'm starting to worry you might be starting a similar pattern here."

She did mind the observation, actually, but she held her tongue, bristling internally.

"I count six period absences already, and it's only your fourth week here. Should I be worried?"

"Seven," she snapped. "I'm missing class right now to be here."

"I'll write you a note." He paused, shifting forward. "And then there's what happened with the gym."

She would never live that down. "If you heard about that then you must have read the police report," she said. "The gym was attacked by gang members." Or so went the official story, as she recalled. "I saved half my class."

"And we're all thankful for your bravery and quick-thinking."

"Are we?" she asked. "It's funny how everyone's thanks feels so much like punishment."

"Well, you did burn down the gym."

She just glared at him, fingers tight in Angel's jacket from where it sat smooth on her lap. She didn't know why she'd brought it with her today. She'd just seen it on her chair, and she'd remembered the cops and her sudden, panicked flight, and putting it on had made her feel safer, for whatever reason. The weight. The smell, like cloves, like earth and cinnamon...

Like him.

"And then there's the story we heard from Mr. Pole a few weeks ago," Kyser continued, oblivious to her thought stream. "Is it true that you jumped in front of a truck?"

He was baiting her, and she didn't have the slightest desire to take it. "Only in the sense that I jumped into Cordelia, who was standing in front of the truck." She burrowed her arms into the jacket, seeking the stasis she'd got from it this morning. "Weren't you just talking to her a few minutes ago? Maybe we could get her back in here and ask her her version." She made as if to get up, then smiled thinly at Kyser's sudden stiffness.

"That won't be necessary."

She settled back down. Under different circumstances, she may've laughed with him about what she'd overheard of Cordelia's counseling session, if it could even be called that. But she hardly felt in the mood to laugh, between Gregory and the possible demon in the building. She just wanted to go. He was making her sad. Making her think of Merrick and Tisha and New Horizons and Harold and that ugly, little cell they'd left her caged her in for weeks.

"You've experienced a lot of loss, haven't you?"

Her attention snapped to him. How did he know?

Sudden, horrible thought: what if her psych records _had_ made it to the school?

"What makes you think that?" she asked casually, taking care to betray nothing.

"Clearly you know how to compartmentalize."

"What makes it so clear?" she pressed.

"The way you're sitting there."

She relaxed a hair, albeit internally. So he didn't know. He was just guessing. She couldn't take it if he started digging, when she'd worked so hard to put her past behind her.

"Yes, I've lost someone," she allowed. "But I don't want to talk about it."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't."

He studied her for a long moment, just as Stone had before him. Like she was a broken kaleidoscope, thousands of pieces of broken glass strewn in the dust.

"Is there anything you would like to talk about?" he asked finally.

She sensed a wrap-up impending. "No," she said.

He settled back. "You know where to find me if you change your mind."

"I can go?" she said.

"Yes," he nodded.

She hopped to her feet, not bothering to spare a brain cell to wonder at what he was writing in his clipboard, then quickly opened and walked out the door. Her thoughts had almost transitioned back to problems of more immediacy when she noticed who was occupying the seat she'd so recently vacated.

"Willow," she said.

"Hey, Buffy," she said. "I thought I heard your voice in there."

Suddenly, she was glad she'd thought to shut the door, for whatever reason. "So Mr. Flutie roped you in too?" she asked, hugging Angel's jacket to her chest.

"Yeah, it sucks," Willow shut her book. "I was on my way to biology. I mean, I guess I can see why they thought it might be appropriate, because of... well, you know, what happened, but..." her voice trailed off. "Was he helpful?"

"Mr. Kyser?" Buffy asked, then shrugged. "Not really." A gun to her head couldn't force her to admit why though.

"Oh," something like disappointment flashed through her face, but she looked down to twiddle her pencil before Buffy could catch her eyes.

"Wil," she said, "I know how hard it is to live with all the dead and all the evil... and all the evil dead," she added, smiling grimly. "If this is upsetting you, if you want to talk about it, we're in this together."

Willow didn't say anything for a beat, looking like she was choosing her words, but before she could voice them, the door popped back open, and Kyser appeared. "Willow Rosenburg?" he asked, then saw Buffy standing there. "Buffy," he said.

"Mr. Kyser," she replied, nodding, then looked at Willow. "See you in a sec, Wil," she said.

"Thanks," Willow said, with a weight that she could only hope Kyser wouldn't pick up on. "Yeah, I'll see you."

Buffy gave her a smile, then started off down the deserted hallway. A glance at the clock told her she was fifteen minutes late, and that was enough to spur her to a run. Kyser's visit may've been useless, but in retrospect she was somewhat horrified to learn her absence count. The last thing she wanted was for the school to call her mother, to have to attempt to explain the cutting. Again.

She came to a halt outside the door to bio, then glanced in the window to gauge how difficult it would be to sneak in. "Oh, great," she murmured, taking in the scene before her, "a pop quiz."

French was standing beside Xander, her hand on his shoulder. Everyone was scribbling away. Then French stiffened and turned to look at her.

But she didn't turn.

Her _head_ turned.

Her head had _turned all the way around_.

Holy shit.

She whirled, slamming back against the door. Her heart had ratcheted up in an instant, and she could feel it pounding in her chest, could feel a sudden flush of adrenaline and heat in her blood.

French was a demon.

She'd suspected that already, but now she knew.

French was hellspawn; full-on, Hollywood freakfest.

Giles. She needed to talk to Giles. Like now.

She booked it down the hall, all thoughts of Kyser and bio and her dismal record falling by the wayside.


	41. Nightcap

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 1331  
><em>_Setting: Teacher's Pet_

_A/N: Some borrowed dialogue_

Buffy joined the crowd streaming into the Bronze. It was 8ish, and the club was as packed as it always was, though she had long since gotten used to the din. She had actually come to love the place just in part for its noise – such a hard contrast with the quiet of the graveyards and empty side streets. The Slayer was silence and death and the night, but Buffy Summers was a creature of the party scene, and among the loud and the young and the living.

Or, at least, she would be, if she kept telling herself that enough. And if the world ever gave her a break.

She stopped to take a long look at the dance floor, and even though she knew that was where she should go, she instead turned away and headed for the bar. She was just way too tired.

By some miracle, there was an empty seat waiting for her when she reached the counter, and she slid into it smoothly, eyes trained on the little glass dome a foot or two away, and the pie within. She was surrounded by muffins and chocolate and pie and cake, a regular sundry of deliciousness, and as she sat there she realized how hungry she was. She didn't remember eating lunch, and she knew she'd passed dinnertime somewhere down the road without ever having stopped to notice the sign. By the time the barkeeper showed up, her stomach was growling, and she asked for tea and the biggest, fattest, chocolatiest muffin in the case.

When it was placed in front of her, she found that it was the happiest she'd felt all day, and she tore into it with relish.

And then her thoughts started sliding back, to the basement and Xander and the bug lady and the acrid smell of its blood, like vinegar. And then the headless, bloody body on the floor in the corner. Blayne hadn't known who he'd been, though he'd watched him die, and he hadn't had any ID in his torn-up pockets.

Buffy remembered calling Giles over when she'd found it, buried slightly under a pile of egg sacs, and then they'd both just stood there, unsure what to do. They couldn't call the police, what with the dead demon and the eggs and the cages, but they couldn't very well just leave him there. It'd been just like the woman in the alley, only down there it could've been years before anyone found him.

In the end Giles decided to call the Watchers' Council for help. They had some sort of unit that dealt with this sort of stuff – with bodies, human or demon – but Buffy had bowed away before hearing too much more. She didn't want to know. And she really didn't want to know if Merrick had done the same thing after she'd come to him, crying about the woman she'd watched die.

The world felt so hard and stark and sharp and impersonal. She'd killed the thing that had killed the boy, but that hadn't changed anything for him, or for her. She'd lost any faith in justice the night she'd found Merrick dead on the warehouse floor, but it amazed her even now how hollow vengeance felt. What horrified her was how little she'd felt as she'd stared down at that body, how much he'd felt like just another drop in the bucket she bore on her shoulders, to join Merrick and Tisha and Jesse and Dr. Gregory and that woman and everyone else she didn't know about.

She'd been glad when Willow and Xander had left her at the house, though she'd hid it. She'd almost asked them if they resented her, if they wanted out. On some level she knew she hadn't been responsible for Xander's near death tonight, but she'd only barely been in time to prevent it, and it terrified her to think of either of them entering the past tense, of becoming one of the ghosts in her bucket, raking their fingers through her heart.

But her tea was warm and sweet in her hands, and none of her friends were dead. She had to take consolation somewhere, even as she sat there alone, watching the barkeeper serve drinks to groups of careless teenagers with lives and non-worries. The barkeeper noticed her looking after awhile, and he walked over before she realized what she'd done.

"Anything else?" he asked her, taking her plate and wiping away the crumbs with a rag.

"No, thank you," she said quietly.

He nodded and walked away, and she watched him go before finally turning to gaze blankly into space. She should go home. She shouldn't be around people. And it was still early enough for her to walk in the front door instead of having to scale the roof.

She took a sip of tea. It was warm and hot and comforting.

In fifteen minutes she could be home and snug in bed. And sleep sounded...good...

Her thoughts trailed off as she spotted something in her periphery, and she turned to find...

Angel.

Just standing there.

In the flesh and everything.

And he was smiling.

Smiling at _her_.

"I heard a rumor there was one less vampire walking around, making a nuisance of himself," he said.

She felt something inside her deflate. "There is," she said. Vampires. All he ever wanted to talk about was vampires. And now a _dead_ vampire at that, or dead-er. "I guess I should thank you for the tip," she said instead of voicing her thoughts as she tapped her cup, then looked back at him.

How could someone so beautiful only ever want to talk about vampires?

"The pleasure's mine," he said.

"Of course," she continued, "it would make things easier if I knew how to get in touch with you."

He just smiled again. "I'll be around."

She kept staring at him. "Or who you were."

Instead of saying something, he started to melt way, like he always did, still giving her nothing but that damn, stupid grin. "Well," she said to stop him, "anyway, you can have your jacket back." She didn't want him to go.

He stopped and looked at her for a second. "It looks better on you."

She became keenly aware of how hard her heart was beating as he walked away, a hard, pulsing lump in her throat. Her mouth was paper dry.

"Oh, boy," she breathed.

She wanted to know why he couldn't just stay, couldn't just tell her something funny or nice or with words to make this night less long and crappy. She wanted to get up and chase him, ask him his full name and where he lived and how he always knew what was going on, how he always knew where to find her.

Because sitting here so wasn't her, especially if it meant she had to wait for the next catastrophe to see him for another six seconds.

And she didn't want to wait.

So she got up, abandoning her tea. Pulling his jacket tighter over her shoulders, she took off in the direction he'd disappeared, then turned for the exits. Outside, it was as cold and dark as she'd left it, and her only company was a couple necking against the fence opposite the Bronze. He was gone, not that she had really expected otherwise. She wasn't entirely sure what she would've done if she had found him.

But she just kept on standing there.

Because just for a second he'd made her forget all the horror and the death and the darkness. He'd made the world seem bright and loud and wonderful again, like they were the only two in it and the only thing that mattered.

But he was gone, and the night seemed that much emptier for it.

Sighing, she buried her hands in his jacket pocket.

And she headed home alone.


	42. Room Change

_Character: Buffy Summers  
><em>_Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
><em>_Rating: PG-13  
><em>_Word Count: 1651  
><em>_Setting: Never Kill a Boy on the First Date_

They announced the room change in home room, in the first period of the morning. Buffy hadn't really given it much thought until just this moment, when she'd walked by the science room's door to find it covered by warning tape, a skull and crossbones stuck to the window – the same window where, just a week and a half ago, she'd watched Natalie French pull a Regan McNeil.

Now she was stopped there, reading the notice. There were several words which contained things like "-prolene" and "-phate" and "-oxy," and she skipped those to stop at the only one that really mattered: pesticides.

She repeated it to herself.

Pesticides.

They had never found out where Dr. Gregory had died, at least no more specifically than "on school grounds." But they knew he'd died just as that nameless boy in the basement had, his head torn off and eaten. For the first time, Buffy found herself wondering if they had shared circumstance as well as cause, and she shivered involuntarily, remembering the pile of slimy eggs.

And then she froze.

Eggs.

Pesticides.

She stared at the door, her mouth going dry.

They had found at least twenty or thirty eggs in that basement. They had all been ostrich-sized, or as large as she'd always imagined an ostrich egg would be. If they'd been allowed to hatch, the things that crawled out would've been as large as chihuahuas. On their own, she barely would've cared long enough to squash them under one of her cheaper boots, but all together, swarming like locusts... It was enough to make her heart quicken— her old, girlish fear of insects besides.

She touched the door, reached for the tape.

She didn't know why they'd never bothered to think there might be other nests, other eggs.

"Hey, Buffy."

"Hey," she said automatically, fakely innocent. Her fingers slid off the handle, and she looked up and to the right, toward the voice. Any excuse she might've been formulating slid from her brain.

Owen Thurman was standing there, just looking at her.

"Hey," she said again.

"We don't have bio in there today," he said. "It's in 211."

"Yeah, I know— I mean, I already had bio." She stared at him, wondering why the swarm of chihuahua-sized locusts seemed so much less important all of a sudden. "I just... I forgot where I was going."

He smiled at her. She'd never seen him smile. He always seemed to be brooding in the corner, staring moodily at a paper or out the window. She'd never noticed his lips before. "I do that sometimes," he said.

She found herself smiling back at him, gaze caught somewhere between his lips and his eyes. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she thought about Angel, but she shoved that particular image away in a second, crushed it down. She hadn't seen him in over a week, since that night in the Bronze after she'd slayed the mantis.

"We have next period together, right?" Owen asked.

"Um, I think so," she said, not really knowing.

"Algebra 2?"

"Yeah," she agreed, still not really knowing.

"Want to walk with me?"

She looked at his lips, at his eyes, at his backpack as it hung off his shoulder on a single strap. She did. More than anything at that particular moment, she did.

And just as she realized that, a force hit the door, and she jumped forward at the push, glancing back. The "toxic" notice covered the window, and she couldn't see anything, but she knew in some deep, inside-y place what was awaiting her on the other side.

She felt something like resignation flood her soul.

"What was that?" Owen asked, all sweet innocence.

She looked at him. "I, uh..." she grasped desperately, "I slipped. Listen," she said without pause, before he could question that. "Owen, I'd love to walk with you, but, I, uh... I just remembered I have this thing, and I have to go," she gestured weakly in a random direction, "over there." She offered him another smile, and he smiled back, but she could see him studying her, like she something bizarre you'd find crawling around inside a glass case. "I'm sorry. I'll see you at math."

She half ran away, clamping down on every ounce of self-control not to turn back, to check to see if he was watching her, and how. Embarrassment burned her cheeks. She felt like a freak. What moron would turn down an offer from Owen Thurman? He never talked to anyone, yet he'd approached her. And she'd walked away.

She was almost jogging by the time she reached the library, and she pushed open both doors with an angry flourish. The place looked deserted, but she found Giles quick enough, tucked away in his office with what smelled like a tuna salad sandwich in hand.

"Buffy," he said with a mild sort of surprise, like it had never occurred to him that he might see her before training. "Good afternoon."

"Is it?" she asked, not entirely sure why she was angry.

"Yes," he said, not catching her tone, or perhaps just ignoring it. "You hungry? I have another half a sandwich."

She just looked at him from her position in the doorway, and gradually she felt the heat ebb away. "No, thank you," she said after a few seconds, more calmly, then continued, "You know that 149 is being fumigated." She didn't phrase it as a question.

"Yes," he nodded, took another bite of sandwich.

"Just 149." She stopped. Let it hang there.

He stopped chewing after a beat, catching her gaze with that look of understanding that only they seemed to share.

"What if Dr. Gregory never even made it out of the room?" she asked.

"We didn't see any blood."

"We never looked," she pointed out. "Not really."

He put down his sandwich.

"I'm going to grab the axe," she said, already turning. She heard Giles move to follow her as she walked toward the book cage, where they kept all the weapons.

"You can't walk through the school with an axe," he pointed out.

"I'll shove it in my bag," she replied. But then she remembered she didn't even have her bag. "One of your bags," she amended, swinging open the book cage, then reaching for the weapons cabinet.

She could feel Giles looked at her, and when she took the axe down and turned to him he was blocking the exit, looking at her in a way that was vaguely reminiscent of Owen's expression minutes before.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"I'm fine," she said.

He just looked at her, and she knew he wasn't buying. But when he opened his mouth again, it wasn't to pry, "Need any help?"

She felt the defensive impulse slip. "I can handle it."

He didn't move for a moment, but when he did it was to walk around to the library counter, where he bent from sight. She had reached him by the time he came up again with a brown, canvas bag, and she took it from him and slid the axe inside. It was barely a concealment, but it would have to do. She turned for the door.

"Buffy," he said, stopping her.

She looked back at him.

"You know this could wait?" he pointed toward the clock. "Classes end in a few hours."

"A few hours too many," she said. "I felt one hit the door. If they escape, who knows where they'll go, what they'll do." She flashed back to that basement, to the decomposing, headless corpse, to Dr. Gregory's body in the fridge. Closed her eyes in a hard blink. "It won't take long."

"Just don't be reckless."

She exhaled, forced a little smile to her lips. "Come on, Giles, they're just a couple baby demons."

He harrumphed.

She smiled at him again, then turned on her heel and strode out. The smile was gone before she'd reached the hall again, and she swept toward her targets with no small amount of naked irritation. She thought of Owen and his lips, of Angel and the way her blood tingled at his presence, and she thought of bodies and a dozen different demons. Everything was always complicated, nothing was ever simple. A room switch was just never just a room switch, and she could never just talk to a boy.

God, but she wished she just could've walked to class with him.

She stopped outside the door, and this time she didn't hesitate before pulling down the tape. The handle was locked, but she gave it a sharp yank and felt it break. Just on the other side, she heard something tap and skitter, and she smiled grimly. Letting the axe slip free of the bag, she pushed open the door and slipped inside.

Nine pairs of bulbous, shiny eyes met hers as she shut it behind her. If the room had been bombed, they looked none the worse for it. Everything stank of chemicals.

A helpless sort of laugh spilled out of her at the sight, erupting from somewhere in her chest.

"I'm sorry," she apologized, not entirely sure why, if the things could even understand her, "You're just so ugly, and this is just so ridiculous."

They stared at her, blank as white sheets.

When she hefted her axe, they took to the air, swirling in a cyclone of bodies and limbs and papery wings. She strode right into the center of it, thinking distantly about boys and demons and dead people.


End file.
